Functional
by taralkariel
Summary: The Red Room produces the greatest assassins in history. The Winter Soldier is brought in to train the Black Widows, and Natalia Romanova quickly comes to his attention. After both are punished for humanizing the perfect weapon, they meet again outside of Odessa as enemies. Years later, Natasha helps Steve Rogers rehabilitate his best friend and must discover what he remembers.
1. We are functional, we are efficient

**A/N: I would really love to see BuckyNat in the MCU, so I wanted to explore how that might work. First half is their relationship in Russia, and the second half is some time after Bucky and Steve have been reunited and Bucky is hanging out in Avenger's Tower. It could be post any of my other stories, or stand alone :) I hope you enjoy it! Titles from "Functional" by Imperative Reaction.**

**Part 1: The Widow and the Winter**

**1\. We are functional, we are efficient**

He is surrounded by cold and metal. His hand is reaching out toward the tiny window in front of his face. In a moment, he can move his arm and lowers it to his side tentatively. As the cold recedes further, he clenches his fingers into fists and rolls his shoulders, shaking his head to shed the thin layer of ice covering his body. The door before him opens at last and he steps out tentatively, more shards of ice dislodging and falling to the concrete outside of the chamber.

The room in which he stands is twenty feet in length and thirty feet long. In addition to the chamber he just stepped out of, which is located in the right corner, there is a metal chair surrounded by technological equipment settled against the wall to the right and a gurney framed by medical supplies on the left. Before him is a blank wall with a door on the far left.

The room also contains three people: two men in shirts with their sleeves rolled up and a man wearing a lab coat over a suit. One of those in shirtsleeves is standing before the monitors; he is five ten, one hundred sixty pounds, age late thirties, no apparent combat skills: not a threat. Another is standing closer, to the right of him, looking at readings on a monitor; five eight, one hundred forty pounds, early forties, close proximity but no apparent combat skills: not a threat. The third is facing him, standing roughly five yards away; late forties, five eleven, one hundred eighty pounds, authoritative, some military training: potential threat.

"How is he?" the potential threat asks.

"Stable. Readings are at normal levels. He should be able to accept mission parameters in the next few minutes," the closest nonthreat answers.

"Good. Inspect the wounds," the potential threat tells the other nonthreat.

His muscles tighten as the man leaves his place by the chair and approaches where he stands, pushing his sleeves further up. The man walks around him slowly, pausing to inspect an area on his shoulder. His skin feels tight there; it is likely healing from some injury. He doesn't remember anything about that. Inspection completed, the man steps away.

"The healing process is very advanced, sir, but not quite complete."

"He was awakened too soon?"

"Not necessarily, sir. The process is different when he is in cryofreeze. We haven't been able to work out all the variables at this time."

"Fine. How about the arm?"

"Updates have been installed and it should be functioning normally."

"Should?"

The man in his shirtsleeves looks surprised, glancing toward his fellow, then back at the man to whom he's been reporting. Then all the eyes in the room turn to him expectantly. "Lift your left arm," he says.

He frowns uncertainly. "Soldier, demonstrate the capabilities of the prosthesis prototype," the senior officer orders.

Obediently, he lifts his left arm and twists it, tightening his fingers into a fist, then spreading them back out. The movement is accompanied by a soft whirring and muffled sound of gears turning beneath the smooth metal plates. The men nod at each other, satisfied.

"Status report."

He glances between the three of them briefly before answering. "Codename: the Winter Soldier. Status: mission ready."

"Excellent!" The man in charge smiles at him. "There is a woman called Katya Durova. She has betrayed us and will share our most important secrets with our enemies. If our great nation is to survive, you must find her and take her down. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You will be briefed on her location and the best strategy to reach her in time. These men will help you get ready. You will need to hurry, Soldier," the man in the lab coat tells him as he turns and walks out the door.

He stands silently at the men approach hesitantly. When he doesn't react, they dress him in his mission gear, consisting of leather armor and an array of weaponry: two pistols strapped to his hip, a semi-automatic strapped to his back, a few grenades on his belt, and more ammunition in his pockets. The technicians, as they seem to be, gather these items from a duffel bag one of them fetched from outside the door. The other one tests his arm again before he is deemed ready.

He walks out of the door and down the hall to the left. The second door is open and he walks into it. There is a large table in the center of the room, surrounded by chairs, and otherwise empty. He enters and stands against the wall to wait. After a small period of time, the senior officer comes in, flanked by two junior officers. These latter are both in their twenties, one hundred and eighty pounds, five foot ten, have had combat training, and are more of a threat than anyone he has encountered so far.

Listening carefully, he assesses the intelligence they are able to provide and determines how best to approach the situation. When the brief is finished, he agrees to the mission and outlines his ideas on how to complete it. The man in charge smiles again, nodding in agreement. Then he is escorted out of the room and down the hall to the door passed the one where he was awoken. Inside, there are several vehicles waiting to transport him and his backup team to the specified location.

"Our enemies are going to try to extract her. We can't allow them to dishonor our country that way. If they are foolish enough to try when you make your attack, make sure they regret it," the senior officer tells him before he climbs into the truck.

"Yes, sir," he replies quietly.

He will ride beside the driver. A rifle is handed to him and he inspects it carefully. They drive. It will take them roughly two hours to reach their destination. There is no one else in the vehicle with him and the driver. The team uses its own vehicles, and he is aware that they do not like being in a contained space with him. That is an accurate assessment on their part, he thinks. He leans back against the headrest of the chair and closes his eyes.

The target is in the city. He knows the roads through it; he has often been here on missions. Its name is unknown to him, irrelevant. Names often are, he has found. Their truck is military-grade, but there are many others just like it here. It won't attract unwanted attention. They pull up and stop next to a night club. He climbs out, pulling the rifle over his shoulder, and walks to the doors of the club.

Durova feels she might be safe if she is in a crowd. Those extracting her will agree. There are few other options in her immediate vicinity that will satisfy what this place will. The men at the door look at him in shock as he approaches, belatedly reaching for the weapons on their waists. When they fire, he catches the bullets on his left arm and they bounce away, having done minimal damage. The men panic when they see this and he steps forward quickly to strike them both with his metal fist. They crumple to the ground, possibly dead, possibly unconscious. Threat neutralized.

He pulls the door open and peers into the dark interior. Lights flash everywhere and music is blaring. There are roughly three hundred people in the main area, the dance floor a fifty by fifty foot square. He briefly scans the crowd for Durova. She is not hard to find; no one else looks at his intrusion in the room with quite as much terror. Others are concerned, annoyed, disturbed, but she is terrified. She knows who he is. When she sees him looking at her, she ducks to the floor, moving toward the back. There is an exit in that direction. She won't reach it. He jumps onto a table nearby, glass crunching under his feet, a few screams reacting to the movement. Lifting his rifle, he is lining up his shot when bullets bury themselves in the wall behind him.

Screaming and shouting fills the room, louder even than the music, which continues to play. He drops back to the ground and tosses the table on its side in front of him, using it for cover. Glancing up briefly, he identifies the shooter and waits a moment while more bullets fly through the air. The aim is not precise, but unlikely to be coming from a civilian. Her extraction team may have arrived. He lifts himself just enough to snipe the man who was shooting at him. When no further weapons are shot in his direction, he stands and kicks the table forward, clearing a path to the target, who has not yet reached the door. She screams.

The exit door opens and the barrel of a gun is pushed through, aiming haphazardly at him. He tosses a grenade through the opening and there are shouts from inside for a moment before it goes off. If that was her extraction team, they were woefully under trained. Distractions eliminated, he trains his rifle on Durova and eliminates her, too. Then he turns and walks out the way he came, the club patrons staring, silent, after him.


	2. We Are Prepared and Self-Sufficient

**A/N: Thanks to those who have already followed/favorited :)**

**2\. We are prepared and self-sufficient**

She awakens early. The sun will not rise for at least an hour yet, not that she will be able to see it when it does. Her bed is the third from the window in the row, with four more girls on her left. The others are still asleep, but all will have vacated this room before the sun arrives. She climbs silently out of her bed and dresses in close-fitting black clothes. Her area is tidied with military precision, and she walks softly to the door at the end of the room.

The door is large and heavy wood, and often bolted. Now, however, it is open and she slips through it. Turning to the right, she follows the cold stone corridor to a large hall approximately forty feet from her dormitory. Rows of tables fill the hall, and it is sparsely populated at this hour. A group of four men are seated together in the far corner, with a few lone soldiers of either sex spread out across the tables. On the wall to her left, there are tables pressed against the wall, with a woman standing in the center of them.

She walks to the closest end of these tables and picks up a bowl. The woman scowls, but possibly not at her, while she ladles breakfast into her bowl. She takes it and finds a seat away from the others and eats quickly. She remembers a time when food had delicious-sounding names and variety, but now she and the others eat virtually the same gruel for every meal. It is filling; that is enough.

When she is finished, she takes her bowl to the pile of used dishes. Sometimes it is her duty to wash these, but not today. Leaving the great hall, she climbs the stairs on the opposite side of her dormitory to reach the central landing of the building. From there, she traverses the courtyard to reach the training rooms. They are attached to the same building, but the route inside is more circuitous. The stones outside are cold on her slippered feet; she has no shoes for outdoors yet. She has to earn that privilege. When the winter comes in earnest, going to trainings will be more unpleasant than it is now.

* * *

The training rooms were once devoted to some less useful purpose, such as dancing for the bourgeoisie. Or perhaps riding. She doesn't know. It doesn't matter anymore. Though it is still early, she is not alone in these rooms. The sounds the handful of others already there make echoes across the empty spaces. She goes to her place and begins her warm-up exercises. Today is a big day. She is surprised the other Widows are not up as early as she is.

The other trainees ignore her as she ignores them. There are other programs using this facility, and they do not know quite what to make of the group of young women who train to be assassins. Time passes and the sleepless night begins to catch up to her. The feeling of weakness makes her want to work harder, not slow down. She knows this is what sets her apart from the others, and she embraces the feeling.

"Devotshka." A familiar voice cuts through her, and she obediently comes to a stop, hands clasped before her. Dmitri is standing on the edge of the mat on which she was training, watching her. "It's time," he says shortly. She follows him toward a briefing room off the main area. Inside, she finds the other Widows, some entering moments before her. She finds her place among them and waits.

"Those of you still with us have proven yourselves," a man wearing a suit under a lab coat tells them. She has seen him before once or twice; he is the senior officer of this facility. His name is Sokolov, she is relatively sure. "You will all be trained to be mission ready in six months. Your afternoon ballet sessions will be replaced by weapons handling and Americanization. Today, you will be given your covers. You need to have them committed to memory by the end of the week, and act only as that person for the remainder of your time here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," they reply in unison. Looking satisfied, Sokolov takes his leave of them, and many of the girls find it difficult to contain their excitement. She is one of the youngest; she had almost been refused for the program. Not that she had had any choice in the matter. She works hard to show that it was not a mistake to take her from the previous facility and bring her here. She hopes that this program will give her more freedom to show what she can do.

Dmitri escorts them back to the training room they will be using today and they dance. The others are not warmed up yet, so she is the only one for a while. Soon, though, the others join in and she can't help but feel this is an improvement. She allows herself to love the dance, and the lovely picture they make, the seven of them, sliding across the floor gracefully. Of course, the reason this training is so important is to make them better killers, skilled assassins who can use their bodies as weapons. But it is still pleasant.

Dancing fills the rest of the morning. The Widows know the steps to many ballets. Dmitri tests them by changing the ordered dance midway through, often to another ballet entirely. They have no issue keeping up; those who did are no longer here. She doesn't know what happened to the others, they had started with two dozen, but is grateful to still be here. It is preferable to the kind of work she was training for before.

As a child, her parents died. That's what she has been told, anyway. A man took her in for a time. He was a high-ranking Soviet official. Why he took in a penniless orphan, she doesn't know. But she was grateful not to be sent to an orphanage. She saw him rarely, and spent much of her time learning ballet and being tutored in subjects most children did not see until they were twice her age. Her quick acquisition of skills was remarked upon, and she was sent to a training facility when she was ten to continue. It was not as the old man had expected; the ranks were kept on a brutal schedule, and she worked more than she learned.

The man, whose name she has been ordered to forget, collected her from there and took her home again. It became apparent, as the years passed, that she was a skilled ballerina and had a quick wit. Instead of finding work that would fit these aptitudes, the man thought it best to make her into a wife. Not his, but some ally. She had refused, and ran away. His people found her; she was a fool to think she could escape, but he relented. And had arranged for her to use her skills here.

The other Widows had been taken into this program at age eleven, and had all lived here, together, working in it ever since. Not all were the same age, of course, but were between eighteen and twenty now. Fitting in with them had been difficult, and there was no small amount of competition between them. Now, with only seven, they are kinder to each other than they were at the beginning. It has been over a year since anyone was taken out of their program, and most are feeling confident that no more will be. She hopes this is true, but continues to keep her distance, just in case.

* * *

A clock chimes somewhere in the facility, and Dmitri gives them the signal to stop. They perform their cool-down exercises quickly, then hasten to the mess hall. Unlike at breakfast, it is getting full and the Widows quickly select a section of a table for themselves. She sits with them, but does not join in their talk. They are all well-trained, but are still young girls and speak of the soldiers with bright eyes and blushes. She doesn't know what their backgrounds are, but her experiences concerning being a wife make her hesitant to engage in such ideas. She would rather have work to do, particularly when she is good at it.

The midday meal does not last long, and the hall clears out with surprising speed. There are considerable punishments for lateness. The Widows leave together and return to the briefing room where they were this morning, at Dmitri's direction. He is their handler, she supposes. It is wise of who ever put him in charge of them that such an old man was chosen. Well, he is perhaps not older than fifty, but heavily scarred from some explosion in his past. She doesn't know the story; no one does.

When they are settled, he crosses to stand in front of them. "First, your covers are in the envelopes in front of you. You will use only these names to address each and be addressed." He pauses while they open the envelopes. Her name is to be Natalia Romanova. She smiles slightly at its similarity to her own name. Dmitri insists they introduce themselves to each other before she can peruse the other information she must memorize. Then he continues. "Today, we will begin weapons training. Remember, a weapon can be much more than a gun or a knife, though these are what we will start with. You will need to know how to use whatever you have at your disposal to defend yourself. Natalia, come forward," he adds and she obediently rises and moves to stand beside him. "What weapons do you see in this room?"

She looks around carefully. "The table, the chairs could be utilized. Yelena's hair pin. Irina's bracelet. Your pen." She pauses. "My hands and feet."

Dmitri smiles. "Good, good. There are more, of course, but it is a good start. Go back to your place." She does as she's told and he pulls out a box from under the table nearest him. "Today, we will start with pistols. How many of you have shot one before?" A few raise their hands; not Natalia. "That is good. It will be best for you to forget however else you may have been trained to use them. We will teach you a better way."

The Widows follow him out of the room and outside. On the far side of the courtyard is a long building, unattached to the central facility. Inside is a shooting range. They have never been here before. Each of them is given a weapon and Dmitri instructs them how to stand and how to hold. The posture comes easy for them; receiving orders such as this is common place. Shooting itself is less easy. Natalia works hard to keep the weapon still and not to flinch when it goes off. Eventually, her aim is comparable to the best among them and she feels a swell of pride.

* * *

The afternoon passes and the sun is setting when they leave the building. The hint of winter approaching can be felt in the wind and the Widows draw closer to each other as they hurry across the cold pavement. After supper, they return to where they danced that morning to practice sparring. It is a recent addition to their repertoire, and they spar only with each other. Natalia finds that she is one of the best at this, perhaps because of her newness here. The others are friends and are hesitant to give the activity their all. She is not. Dmitri praises her and tells the others to be more like her. They are too obedient and well-trained to show their displeasure at this comment, but she knows it will make things worse for her in the dormitory.

Other soldiers here spar as well, but it is not time yet for them to engage with those not in their program. The other programs are shorter; many soldiers have come and gone during even Natalia's short time here. It is important not to grow attached, which is perhaps one reason they do not fight with anyone else. Another is the fact that the Widows are training for something greater than them. They will infiltrate and engage with high-ranking intelligence and military officers. It is best to keep their skills, their maneuvers, a secret. To keep them unknown.

The sun has been down for hours before Dmitri allows them to stop. Natalia is bone-tired and aches everywhere. She may be more skilled than the others, but that certainly did not prevent her from feeling a lot of blows. Most were blocked, not dodged. She can see that the others are as exhausted and in pain. Dmitri praises them for their efforts today, and she knows all of them put forth everything to prove they would be worthy of the covers devised for them. Now that they have been given, it will not be long before they are allowed to leave here on missions. Go back to the world to do good work for the Motherland.

She smiles as she follows the others back to their dormitory. There is a bathroom at the end of their room and they hastily wash themselves before falling into bed, exhausted. Natalia is, too, but her excitement grows more with each passing day and she can hardly wait for morning to come. For her real training to continue. For her to prove what she can accomplish.


	3. And We Only Destroy For the Greater Good

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has favorited or followed! Please read and review :)**

**3\. And we only destroy for the greater good**

The ride back to the base is uneventful. He sits calmly beside the driver, staring out at the landscape that passes by slowly. The leaves of the trees are falling, it will begin snowing soon. The sky is grey and could mean snow now. He wonders if he will be awake long enough to see it, or if he will be wrapped in his own wintry prison. Until they have need of him again. He doesn't know how long this has continued, but he knows he has been on missions before. He knows the chamber he awakened in puts him to sleep for long periods of time.

Why they take the trouble to make him sleep between missions is a mystery. He supposes, from what little he knows, that there isn't anyone else like him. They put him away when they aren't using him so he can continue to be useful in the future. His brow furrows slightly. Are there others who undergo this treatment, or only him? Why is he so special? He looks down and considers his arm. The prototype is much more advanced than any of the other tech he sees or uses on missions. It's special. Like him.

The driver glances at him nervously when they come to a stop in the same room where they started. His backup team is right behind them, and exits the other vehicle swiftly. Still frowning, he climbs out and looks for his handlers. The other soldiers go off somewhere, probably to barracks. He may have gone to barracks once. Now he has his own quarters, with all the equipment they need to keep him an asset. No one is waiting for him, so he walks down to his chamber on his own.

It is empty, which is surprising. He thinks. He isn't sure if that is usually the case or not. Uncertainly, he goes to the medical station, removes some of his gear, and sits down on the gurney there to wait. It is unlikely that he was injured, but a medical inspection is always required after a mission. While he waits, he considers his position here. The officer in charge is not one he's seen before; he is almost certain of that. Before… Before, there was a man in a lab coat, but he wasn't military. He was a scientist. There was something about him he should remember. Something feels missing.

"He's back, sir," one of the nonthreatening technicians from before calls over his shoulder as he enters the room. He looks startled to find him there, and walks slowly toward the chair apparatus.

The head officer follows him a moment later, and makes his way directly to the medical station. "Report," he orders.

"Target located in night club as predicted. Eliminated. Minimal civilian casualties. Unidentified units attempted attack via back door and were neutralized," he answers.

"Anyone from the extraction team apprehended?"

He pauses. "Mission parameters did not stipulate survival for enemy agents."

The officer smiles grimly. "Good point. Any injuries sustained?"

"No, sir."

"And the performance of your team?"

The officer looks at him closely. "Men in charge of driving did so expediently. No other member of the team was utilized," he responds, confused by the intensity of the question.

"I see. Do you like to work alone, Soldier?"

"Specifications for missions rarely require involvement of another party."

"Of course, we wouldn't want to give you a job you couldn't complete," the officer assures him, motioning for the technician to inspect the Soldier. He holds still while this is done, uncertain if he is expected to respond to the statement. After a few moments of silence, during which the technician seems very nervous, the officer speaks again. "How are you at hand to hand combat?"

"Intensive training sessions focusing on incomparable methods have rendered it highly unlikely for another agent to be successful. Additionally, the cybernetic prototype has been tested against both knives and small arms fire." He glances at the technician, who was staring at him when he responded. Now, the man looks away quickly and returns to his inspection.

"Excellent. When were you trained? Who trained you?"

He licks his lips, looking around. "Unknown," he answers at last, brow furrowed.

"Sir, we have that information on file if you require it," the technician speaks up, inspection completed. He steps away from the medical area.

The officer watches his movements. "Can you tell me if they're still around?"

"I don't believe they would be, sir."

"Good." He turns back to the Soldier. "I want to see what you are capable of. Come with me."

Obediently, he follows the officer out of the room. They turn right outside the door, walking passed the area with the vehicles, and through a door at the end of the hall. Inside it, there is a large shooting range. It is empty. They cross it and go out a larger door, which lets them out into a courtyard. The main building is straight ahead. It is quite large and made of stone. He hasn't seen it before. They veer to the right and enter a wing of it. Here, there is an assortment of training rooms, with mats covering the floors. At the edges of these, there are doors. Since some of these are open, he can see what look like briefing rooms, containing tables and chairs.

The officer leads him to a mostly enclosed training area at the far back of the building. He is instructed to wait, which he does. Despite the space, everything is empty. He is sure he can hear his own breathing echoing across the walls. It was dark outside, he remembers, so it is likely that everyone is asleep. Whoever "everyone" is. He tries unsuccessfully to think of the last time he saw more than a half dozen people at a time. On missions, of course, there are civilians, but he rarely sees more than his handlers and backup team. Even the team he only sees for missions themselves. It would be more efficient, he thinks, if he were familiar enough with the strengths of his men to integrate them into his plans. Perhaps he will bring it up when the officer returns.

Somewhat surprisingly, it is not just the officer who returns. Following him are a dozen men. He assesses them carefully as they approach. All clearly have had combat training of some sort; he will have to wait to find out what kind and how extensive. The lightest one is at least one hundred eighty pounds, and the heaviest is two hundred forty. Their heights range from five foot nine to six foot two (taller than his five foot eleven). In age, the youngest looks close to twenty and the oldest perhaps thirty five. He looks closely for any weaknesses, any shifts in gait that might indicate a useful target. A few have something identifiable, most do not.

"Soldier, you were sent to me because the current head of our organization couldn't use you in his country, and thought you might be useful in mine. I think he's right, but I also think you might be more useful if the kinds of missions I can send you on were a little expanded. Whether that pans out or not, I intend to use your skills instead of putting you back on ice. I trust that's an agreeable proposition to you?"

"Yes, sir," he replies quietly, uncertainly.

"Good. So, tonight, you're going to show me what you can do for me. And, if it's enough, you'll get to see tomorrow. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright, men, let's start with one at a time."

The officer motions for one of those who had entered with him to approach the mat where the Soldier stands. The man is two hundred ten pounds, six foot one, and late twenties. He favors his right leg ever so slightly. At an unspoken signal, they begin to circle each other warily, searching for potential limitations. Noting the number of men remaining, the Soldier decides to end this quickly. With a swift leap forward, he kicks the side of his opponent's right knee. There is a crack and the man drops. To his credit, he makes little noise to indicate the agony he is surely in, but he won't be able to reengage.

"Move him. Two this time," the officer says. Two men step forward, perhaps by some prearranged order, and pull the injured man away. Then they move to opposite sides of the Soldier and wait, ready. One is five foot ten, one hundred ninety pounds, early twenties, while the other is six foot two, two hundred twenty pounds, mid-twenties. There are no obvious weaknesses in either of them. He will have to engage. He glances at the officer briefly. It would be easy to kill any of these men with his left arm. Shifting his weight, he wonders if that would prove himself or not.

The smaller man darts forward, right arm aimed toward the Soldier's ribs. He catches his wrist with his left arm and uses the momentum to swing him around and into the larger man. They both hit the mat, but are on their feet soon enough. This time, they attack together, moving toward him rapidly on either side. When they attempt to strike, he ducks and sweeps out their legs, spinning quickly so his leg knocks both of them down almost simultaneously. They are slightly dazed, and he uses this opportunity to render them unconscious with his left fist. Then he rises and waits while these two are taken away.

The officer is almost smiling at him. He sends in three this time. The Soldier drops them all within a few moments. Six remain. All are sent at him at once. This is easier; their numbers make it difficult for them to move, to keep their distance from him. It takes no longer than the three to eradicate the threats. He stands calmly in the center of the mat, a few of the men around him stirring and groaning, but most are still. There is no one left to pull them away, so he steps lightly over them and crosses to the edge of the mat where the officer stands.

"Was that sufficient?" he asks.

The officer smiles broadly. "Yes, Soldier, you will definitely be part of the program for now. Until your other masters take you back," he adds.

Leaving the men where they lay, the man leads the Soldier back the way they have come. As they pass through the courtyard, he supposes it is well past midnight. He wonders what his new assignment will entail. It seems likely that it will involve sparring more. The men he fought are certainly in need of further training in that regard. They relied too heavily on self-preservation to be effective. He is effective because he has little thought for his own safety; wounds will heal, the mission must be completed.

When they reach the chamber where his equipment is kept, he finds that there has been the addition of a cot and a duffel bag on the wall beside the device that puts him to sleep.

"You will sleep here. At 011:00, someone will come to fetch you and it will be time to work. Get some rest; it's going to be a long day for you," the officer adds, looking pleased. He is unsure if he is pleased with himself or with the Soldier.

"Yes, sir," he says quietly. The man leaves, and he looks into the bag, which is sitting on the cot. Inside, there is an assortment of clothes, mainly the sort of close-fitting materials that would be preferable when physically training. He changes into these and lies down on the cot, staring up at the ceiling. He is unsure of the last time he slept in this more traditional manner. It does not fit in with his usual parameters. Things are going to be different, and he hopes he has the requisite skills to continue being the asset he was trained to be. After a while, his eyes flutter closed and he drifts off.


	4. Where Is The Line?

**A/N: Please read and review :)**

**4\. Where is the line?**

Natalia is, as usual, the first to the training area in the morning. She stretches and warms up, rehashing the other details she needs to know for her cover. It is unlikely that they will be tested on this information so soon, but she wants to be ready. They have until the end of the week, but she certainly doesn't plan to wait that long. The other Widows join her in pairs, warming up and quizzing each other quietly on their cover information. No one asks her, but she doesn't mind.

Dmitri comes in at last and sets them dancing. They will be practicing familiar ballets for now, he explains, to keep them ready but not interfere with learning a great deal of new things during the afternoon and evening trainings. Natalia laments not learning a new dance, but reminds herself that she may be learning a different kind of dance, and it may be no less lovely. To her surprise, they finish earlier than usual, and are instructed to hurry back from lunch.

The clock is just chiming noon when they return to the training rooms. Dmitri ushers them into a briefing room, and they settle into their usual places. Natalia notes that he seems more on edge than she has seen him before. He glances repeatedly toward the door. More surprising, the other trainers order their soldiers to vacate the area, so it is only the eight of them in the huge space. This is unprecedented, Natalia thinks. She has never been in here without the sounds of others working in the background.

"Now, comrades," Dmitri begins, pulling at his collar nervously. "You have taken English lessons before. Today, we are going to work on your accents."

Natalia frowns. Language lessons are boring. Necessary, of course, but she can't imagine why he would be as uncomfortable as he seems for something as commonplace as learning pronunciation. They usually have English lessons once a week; most of the Widows speak the language somewhat fluently, and they work on more specialized terms that their line of work may require.

"We have a special guest here to instruct you. You will meet with him at this time every day, since we do not know how long we will have the benefit of his services," Dmitri continues.

"Who is he?" Yelena wants to know.

Dmitri frowns. Curiosity is not generally valued here, despite it being a good quality in a spy. "He is an assassin known as the Winter Soldier, formerly with strong ties to America. You will not speak to him unless spoken to, and you will not ask foolish questions about him, is that clear?" The Widows all nod in unison. "He will also train you to spar. Pay close attention to what he says; no one has ever beaten him."

Their eyes widen as the door to the training rooms opens and shuts loudly, echoing across the emptiness. Natalia supposes it is empty so that no one else can know or recognize this assassin. It is flattering that they are permitted, and to be trained by such a person is an honor. Still, it gives her an unpleasant feeling in her belly, to be taken into someone's confidence in this manner. In her experience, it is impossible to escape once you're in it.

The Widows carefully do not move as the heavy tread of boots approaches them. When the man enters, Natalia assesses him quickly. He is five foot eleven, around two hundred pounds, and perhaps in his mid to late twenties. Something about his face makes his age difficult to identify. More striking is the blank look he wears, as though nothing exists outside of what is happening right now. Faces are important to consider, of course, since expressions can tell you much about what to expect from a person. This man gives them absolutely nothing, so she continues her inspection. He is well-built, with longish hair and a metal arm. At first, she thinks it is just his sleeve, but she sees his fingers are metal, too, and the arm whirs softly when he moves it. It is astonishing, and she cannot resist staring.

"You understand English?" the Winter Soldier, apparently, asks them, in that language.

"Yes, sir," they answer.

He frowns, glancing at Dmitri. "Yes, sir," he says slowly, somewhat different from how they said it. He gives them a look, and they repeat the sentiment, mimicking his inflection. Dmitri looks distressed. "Who taught them before?"

"One of our agents who was a mole in MI-6," he explains, and Natalia is surprised at the lack of smugness that usually accompanies this explanation.

The Soldier snorts derisively. "Are these women going to MI-6?" he asks coldly.

"No, sir," Dmitri answers quickly.

"We will have to start at the beginning, then," the Soldier says resignedly. "Leave us," he tells Dmitri.

The Widows look at their handler sharply as he hesitantly takes his leave of them. They glance at each other briefly. This isn't according to protocol. A few of them frown. Natalia keeps her eyes fixed on the Soldier. He holds himself differently from their agents, not to mention speaking in presumably a perfect American accent. His Russian is accent-less, too, and she wonders which side he started on.

Lessons with the Soldier are quite different from the others they have had. Often, they had books to follow, or presentations on particular areas of expertise. Now, he speaks to them and they repeat his phrasing. They know what they are saying, which they may not have before, so really all they need is coaching on their pronunciation. The Soldier does not give praise, but neither does he reprimand those who do not mimic his words perfectly. He just continues with the same phrase until everyone can say it flawlessly. The Widows would not have been recruited, or have stayed this long in the program, if they were lacking language skills, so it does not take long for them to catch on.

Natalia finds herself enjoying the lesson. It is interesting to learn to speak so succinctly and efficiently. She has always liked languages, though. The lesson being different is also pleasant. Their last instructor often employed bullying and alienating tactics during lessons. This was partially to weed out Widows who would not survive the program, but it had continued long after the last one had been removed. It is a nice change, even if their teacher is much more enigmatic. There is no obvious reasoning behind the phrases he chooses, and he reveals absolutely nothing about himself, despite spending over four hours at the task.

The bells chimes and they are released for supper. In the most human thing he's done since arriving, the Soldier seems vaguely surprised by the sound. Otherwise, Natalia is unable to catch him doing anything else like another man might. They will not be getting to know this instructor; that is clear. He remains in the room, unmoved, when they leave.

At the table, the other Widows have a lot of things to say about their new instructor. As usual, Natalia doesn't join in. She mentally practices both the names of her colleagues and some of the more pertinent phrases she has just learned. When Yelena expresses that she, for one, is pretty nervous about learning sparring techniques from this man, Natalia can't help but agree.

* * *

After the evening meal, the Widows return to the training rooms. Again, they are vacated, but this time, the Winter Soldier is there waiting. Natalia questions if he left or merely walked out of the briefing room. His body language expresses nothing, and the Widows move hesitantly to stand before him. She wonders if Dmitri will be permitted to join them again. It would be comforting to have him there.

"Pair off," he orders. The others do so; Natalia stands alone. This goes unacknowledged, and she feels a little relieved. "You two, start," he orders Irina and Yelena.

Hiding their surprise, they quickly get into first positions and begin. They are evenly matched, and spar often, so it takes some time for there to be a victor. The Soldier watches silently. Natalia looks between him and the match, and tries to assess them as thoroughly as he must be doing. When they are finished, Irina the winner, he waves them aside and orders the next pair to start. This continues, with him saying almost nothing, until all have matched up. He steps closer to Natalia and she resists the urge to back away.

"You were studying them, yes?" She nods. "Good." He walks out to the center of the mat and motions for her to join him. "Your methods are rudimentary," he tells the group as a whole, garnering some frowns, "but show promise. The vulnerabilities in your defenses must be realigned into strengths. Those you fight will be larger than you. Use that against them." He turns to Natalia, looking at her intently. "Attack me, like she attacked her," he says softly, pointing to Anya.

Despite being somewhat bewildered, she nods. She replays Anya's move in her head; it is one they have all learned. Debilitating an opponent by running and jumping at their throat, and choking with your thighs is useful on small assailants. It knocked down Anya's opponent and gave her the victory. Looking at the solidly built Soldier, Natalia doesn't think it will have much effect at all. Taking a deep breath, she springs into action. Successfully gauging his height, she does land on his shoulders. Before she can get a good hold, however, he swings her around with his right arm and easily tosses her to the mat, almost a yard away. Her impact on him did not move him an inch, and he used her momentum against her. She eyes him intently as she climbs to her feet, ignoring the aches from where her elbow and knee struck the ground. She can't help but feel a little relieved that his metal arm did not touch her.

"Attack again, like she did," he orders again, just as quietly as last time, pointing to Yelena. She is the largest Widow here, and attacked Irina by dragging her feet out from under her. Natalia must look doubtful, because he meets her eye and gives her a quick nod. "The faster person will always win," he tells her.

Frowning, she walks slowly around the edge of the mat, while he stands motionless in the center. His legs are spread, his hands at his sides, as he waits for the attack. She moves out of his sight, then runs forward, dropping to her knees and using her momentum to help her pull his leg off the floor. He keeps one solidly planted and spins himself on his toe with her force, reaching down to dislodge her and toss her across the mat again.

"Both legs," he tells her.

Natalia is relieved that he doesn't ask her to attack again, instead asking the others what she should have done differently. She does not respond to the question, but joins their ranks. After a better method is suggested, one of the other women is invited to test it. The attempt is also unsuccessful, and they are asked to analyze it as well. Eventually, all of the Widows have fought the Soldier and a few have gotten close to knocking him down. Natalia soon offers her opinions on improved methods and many of her suggestions bring them the closest to besting their instructor. Twice more, she faces off against him, doing better each time. Still, she is much sorer than she was the previous day when the bell chimes and they are released.

"Don't let your size inhibit you," the Soldier says softly to her as the others leave. She glances up at him sharply, very aware that she is the smallest of her comrades. "Find a way to use it," he adds.

She looks at him uncertainly. "Thank you, sir," she says finally, before turning to follow the others. Glancing back, she sees that he has not moved. Her body aches and she wonders if his does, too. "Aren't you going to bed, sir?" she calls back to him.

His attention focuses on her abruptly and she wonders if she has overstepped herself. "Too much sleep," he mutters, turning away. She bites her tongue and quickly heads out across the courtyard.


	5. Between Progress and Decline

**A/N: Thanks for all the favorites and followers so far! Please read and review :)**

**5\. Between progress and decline?**

He sleeps a great deal. It is not restful; strange images pass through his mind and leave him bewildered when he awakens. He sees his handlers rarely, though food is always waiting in his room when he rises in the morning and before he goes to bed. Most mornings, he goes to the firing range down the hall and practices for a few hours. Then he teaches English and combat for the rest of the day. He is uncertain why he has been tasked with instructing these women, but they learn quickly and have the aptitude to become great assets. There are other soldiers in the facility, he knows, but he does not see them. Though he can hear the firing range being used quite a bit, it is always empty when he goes by. The training rooms are similar. His schedule is not a secret, so it is unsurprising that his location would be anticipated and prepared for, but it is somewhat unsettling.

The Black Widows, as they are called, will be going into the field soon, in less than six weeks. They have been working very hard, and have fully developed their covers. He doesn't know who they were before, but it doesn't matter. They are willing to give up everything for their country, and he supposes he must have been, too, though he can't remember. In any case, they have talents he does not possess and will make excellent spies. One in particular, Natalia, has shown great prowess in her skills. None of them have bested him in combat, but she has managed to knock him off his feet from time to time. It would provide her a chance to escape an assailant of his size and skill in the field. The others have occasionally proven themselves capable of escaping, but by a much narrower margin.

The chief officer comes to the sparring lessons every few days, and always seems pleased. He hopes this means he will not have to be put on ice again anytime soon. It may be necessary for him to keep his position, but it is not a pleasant experience, being frozen. He has considered that pleasantness is not part of his job, and he should not get too attached, but is having a difficult time taking this advice to heart. He supposes he would be justified in enjoying it while it lasts. Soon enough, he will be awakened only to kill, and then sent back to sleep. Once the Widows are trained, what purpose will he have?

* * *

One morning, while practicing his marksmanship, he is startled by the sound of the door behind him opening. Thinking perhaps he has misjudged the time, he puts his weapon down and turns to assess the situation. It is not one of his handlers, as he expects, or the Widows' handler, which is also likely. It is Natalia. She walks in hesitantly, limping a little, watching him for a reaction. He is aware that he gives her none. Unintentional responses to stimuli are a weakness in an asset.

"I didn't know you would be here," she says quietly, in Russian.

"English," he orders, and she repeats the statement in perfectly accented English. "I usually am," he responds to her implied question, raising an eyebrow at her.

"The dance this morning got a little out of hand. They told me I could go practice shooting instead," she explains, motioning toward her injured leg.

He frowns, questioning the truthfulness of her statement. And how, if she is truthful, a dance could get out of hand. "Carry on," he replies, and turns back to shooting.

Perhaps it is because it has been his job for the past few months, but he soon stops his own practice to watch her. Whoever has been coaching her was a soldier, not a sniper. It is unlikely that she will be involved in any open warfare situations, and would require a more subtle method of shooting in her missions.

"Do the others stand like you do when they fire?" he asks abruptly.

She stops and turns to face him, looking surprised. She hasn't mastered that part of being an agent yet, he notes. "I think so, sir."

He sighs. "Bring them here. Now."

"But, sir," she protests.

"Your dancing skills are more than adequate. Your time would be better spent practicing something more in need of attention," he responds, folding his arms across his chest. A flash of anger crosses her face, but then she nods and leaves the room quickly.

He waits patiently, considering the order of skills he needs to address for them to rival him in small arms weaponry. He wonders if he should teach them to use a knife as well, since that is a weapon more suited to stealth. While he waits, he searches the range and finds a trunk containing several kinds of knives. He is testing these out when the Widows arrive, with their handler.

"What is the meaning of this?" the handler demands, stalking over to him.

He throws one more knife, hitting the bulls-eye squarely, then turns to face the smaller man. "Natalia's skills are inadequate. I assume the others' are as well. There isn't much time left to address them," he explains calmly.

"They are going to be auditioning for the Russian ballet in a matter of weeks! They will not get in if their dancing is not perfect, and we do not want to screw things up at the beginning by arranging it for them to get in."

He notes that the Widows are looking on in interest, perhaps previously unaware of what their handler is saying. "They will be unsuccessful if their weapons training is neglected," he replies, eyes narrowing.

The man takes a step back, glancing around the empty room. "Fine, but do not think the Commander will not hear of this," he snaps, and stalks out of the room.

"Stealth is going to be your best asset. We will start with knives," the Soldier says, handing them out.

* * *

His days are full, and he sleeps less. The dreams do not come as often, and he feels more rested. The Widows train with him all day, though more time is used on combat training than language as their skills progress. He doesn't mind; it is easier for him to train them in something in which he received training, rather than something he just inherently knows how to do. He cannot help feeling a sense of pride when he watches them fight or fire expertly. They are ready.

The officer in charge, the Commander, apparently, does come to see him. He does not bring up the problem the Widows' handler had, but instead asks him for an assessment of each agent. He explains the skills and weaknesses of each pupil, and the officer is very pleased. When the man leaves, he wonders if this marks the end of his time working here. Though he knows little about the Black Widow program, he is aware that there is no discussion of bringing in more recruits. And the other programs here have not been brought to his attention.

* * *

It is evening. He is standing in the courtyard, which is surrounded on three sides by buildings and one side by a wall. Looking over the wall, which is only four and a half feet high, he can see the rest of the mountain range in which they are settled. With the snow still in the peaks, he cannot help but think of how beautiful the view is. Something about it stirs his memory, but he hasn't been able to place such things and no longer tries.

Footsteps to his right force him out of his thoughts, and he glances over. Natalia is approaching. He hopes that he has not shown favoritism toward her when he gave her assessment to the commander. She has not spoken to him outside of training except once, though the others have not at all. He shifts his weight and wonders what she is doing here.

"You told him we were ready," she says quietly, coming to a stop a yard or so away, her gaze on the mountains ahead.

"You are," he replies, returning his attention on the view.

"I've been on missions before."

He glances at her. Her jaw is set, determined, but she's not looking at him. "Have you?"

"Yes, when I was a child. I… wasn't properly trained for those. They ended badly," she explains.

Frowning, he isn't sure what to make of the statement. "I'm sorry," he says at last.

She turns to face him, and he meets her eye. "Don't be. This time, I've been trained. By the best. So, if you think I'm ready, I'm sure I will be successful."

He smiles tentatively. "You will be."

Her eyes flicker toward the ground, but she keeps her emotions off her face. "I just wanted to thank you for teaching me," she mutters.

"You were easy to teach," he responds, cocking his head at her.

"I heard that… that you said I was the best," she says, raising her eyes to look at him quizzically.

"Your initial skills were adequate and you approached all lessons with intensity and determination, never allowing emotions to keep you from being successful."

"Is that how you became what you are?" Her brow furrows slightly.

He looks away, out into the distant mountains. "I don't know," he admits.

"You don't know?" she questions, surprised.

"I don't remember," he clarifies.

She seems taken aback by this idea. "What do you remember?"

Her voice is barely a whisper; perhaps she doesn't really want an answer. "Waking up here before I started training you. Just a few impressions from before that, nothing concrete."

"Soldier… What's your name?" she asks, taking a step closer to him.

He frowns deeply. "I have a codename. Nothing else."

She shakes her head slowly, one hand gripping the wall beside them tightly, the other presses against her sternum. "I'm sorry."

He folds his arms across his chest and tries not to be bothered by what is apparently a distressing state of affairs for him. "You must give up much to serve a country, to be the best, Natalia," he explains quietly.

Her hands go to her sides, tightening into fists. "I am ready," she insists.

He smiles slightly. "I know."

She clears her throat. "We have our orders. We are leaving in the morning."

Taken by surprise by the feeling of despair that fills him at this statement, he manages a nod in response.

"I wanted to say goodbye, and thank you. Maybe I will see you in the field sometime," she adds, tone hopeful as she extends her right hand.

He takes it gently in his and shakes, fighting the fact that the prospect seems to fill him with hope as well.


	6. What Is the Price to Stop Ruining Life?

**A/N: Please read and review :)**

**6\. What is the price to stop ruining life?**

Natalia links arms with the other ballerinas and they curtsy gracefully, smiling at the applause that erupts. The curtain swings closed and she hastens backstage, to the dressing room. Removing her tutu, she dresses in an elegant evening gown and unfastens her bun, so her wavy hair settles around her shoulders. The others change just as quickly, and they return to the ballroom, now to mingle with the wealthy guests rather than entertain them. Not all of those with her are Black Widows, only two of her comrades join her here. The others were placed in other ballet companies to spread out the wealth, as Dmitri called it. Until tonight, their mission has been to blend in, nothing more. She is excited to finally have a job to do, as she was beginning to think simply being a ballerina may have been enough for her.

Finding her mark is easy; his fur coat even in this stifling crowd makes him stand out. He is nervously pulling it closer to him in a way that is unfortunately obvious. She moves next to him and links arms, smiling broadly.

"Oh, well, hello," he says awkwardly in heavily accented English, forcing a smile.

"Good evening," she answers, forcing her Russian accent to remain in her voice.

He relaxes slightly. "One of the ballerinas?" he asks. "You danced beautifully."

"Thank you." She smiles sweetly at him. "Will you dance with me?"

"Oh! I, uh," he stutters.

"Please?"

He relents at last and she chats merrily with him as they turn slowly on the ballroom floor. She can tell he is overheating, so after an appropriate length of time, she suggests they step outside to continue their conversation. His concern for her warmth is overridden and she gets him into the courtyard at last. It is late fall, so she fights back a shiver while she smiles at him. He is telling her about his job, which he shouldn't, but she isn't really listening. When they have walked onto a small bridge, beyond earshot of any of the other guests, she drops her act and pulls a knife out of her belt, pushing him against the wall with it at his throat.

"Wh-what do you want?" he gasps, eyes wide as he teeters, unbalanced.

"The device you carry," she snaps.

"The what?" She presses the knife into his flesh a little harder. "Oh! That device." His fingers fumblingly pull a small metal object from the pocket in his coat. She snatches it away with her free hand, verifies that it is what she was sent for, and tucks it into the front of her gown.

"If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will come back for you," she growls.

"But how will I explain-?" he protests.

Without another word, she drops and kicks his legs out of from under him, knocking him off the bridge and into the current below. It is a small river, he will survive. She was ordered to let him survive, but he must meet with some accident to explain the loss of the device. After watching him splutter for a few moments, movements growing slow because of the cold, she begins screaming to alert the other guests. Then she leaves.

* * *

The ballerinas are staying in a fancy hotel in the center of the city. It takes some effort to extricate herself from their camaraderie to take the device to the meet. The girls are excited by their successful performance, their best so far, and want to celebrate. Since she clearly must be shaken by what happened to the man she was accompanying, it would be suspicious for her to want to go out on her own. She waits until they are all asleep, and is finally able to slip away.

She wraps her fur coat tightly around her shoulders as she paces the path in the park. Where is her contact? Her training did not prepare her for a lot of idle waiting, though that has mainly been what she has done so far as a spy. She suspects she will need to grow used to it. The crunch of gravel behind her causes her to turn around quickly, and her face breaks into a genuine smile.

"Hello, Natalia," the Soldier says quietly, coming to a stop a few feet away. He is wearing a long black coat that just brushes the tops of his combat boots, his hands tucked in his pockets. It is strange to see him dressed in something besides training gear.

"I didn't know it would be you," she answers, unreasonably pleased to see him.

"They decided I could still be of use to the Widows for a little longer," he replies.

"You've seen the others? How are they?" She moves closer to stand beside him, resisting the urge to link arms with him as they stroll forward.

"They went to two other troupes and have had moderate success thus far. One assassination, one extraction, both completed. The assassination was sloppy and they may need to be reassigned." He seems far away as he reports this, then turns to look at her. "How did your first mission go, Natalia?"

"Perfectly," she answers smugly, grinning when he laughs, a surprising sound.

"That's what I expected," he attests, smiling. She holds out the device and he opens his coat to tuck it into one of the pouches on his belt. Beneath the coat, he is wearing black pants with many pockets and a brown leather jacket with a lot of layers fastened by buttons. His left hand is wearing a fingerless black glove, while his right is bare despite the cold. He clears his throat when he catches her staring. "Try to be a little more subtle when assessing opponents," he suggests gently.

Blushing faintly, she nods. "Are you an opponent?"

"Not at the moment," he says seriously, and she frowns. He looks away, down the path ahead of them. "I can't stay long."

She wonders if she imagines the regret she hears in his voice. "I know. Say hello to the others for me. Until our next meeting," she adds, sweeping him a curtsy.

He smiles slightly at her mock seriousness, then takes her hand, bowing over it and pressing a brief kiss against the back. "You make a very convincing lady. I didn't train that," he says quietly, then turns and walks away. She clasps her hands together and watches him go.

* * *

The next time she sees him, a year has passed. She has been successful with fifteen assignments, better than the other Widows. Some are small, just passing information or objects from person to person, but a few were assassinations. She is very proud to have done these without leaving a trace as to her identity. Her days are filled with dancing and social events, and her nights are filled with missions. It is a perfect combination, but the Widows in her troupe have been moved elsewhere, perhaps to help each other and she finds herself a little lonely. The ballerinas with whom she works are nice enough, but she knows better than to trust them with anything personal. She keeps strictly to her cover.

One evening, she is leaving a party on her own. The others worry about her predilection for walking home alone, but she doubts any common criminal could be a threat to her. She had gone to the party with a man, but she has no qualms about abandoning him there. He was growing too attached, anyway. It is hard to keep up appearances when she must allow men to get to know her for an extended period of time. She is confident that she will not need him again, at any rate.

Suddenly, an arm wraps around her waist and she is dragged into the alley she was just passing. Rather than scream, she immediately drops her weight so it is fully on the arm, and twists her body around to force more space between the arm and the chest of her assailant. Before she can slip through this space, she is twisted the rest of the way around and pressed against the wall, one arm across her throat and shoulders, the other snatching and holding her wrists together above her head.

She swallows heavily. "You caught me by surprise," she explains.

The Soldier smiles grimly and releases her, stepping back. "You think people will warn you before they attack?"

"No, but that would have worked on most people," she replies, rubbing her wrist where his metal fingers pinched.

He glances down. "Sorry. You're right, that would have gotten you out of the situation if it had been someone else."

"What are you doing here?" She pauses, surprised at the way this question seems to trouble him. "Not that I mind having my skills kept sharp by random attacks," she adds with a smile.

He doesn't smile in return. "Our superiors have heard excellent reports regarding your skill in the field and you have been selected for a new assignment, if you are willing."

She frowns, brow furrowing. None of the other missions came with an optional status. Her heart pounds as she considers what this might entail. She is already in one of the most elite programs in the country; this must be very special. "What is it?"

"Due to the change in objectives in the Winter Soldier program, it has been suggested that, while it is an asset of this country alone, the parameters shift to include less obvious tactics and more time in the field." He flashes her a brief smirk when she looks puzzled. "In order for this to be successful, the most efficient alteration would be to include other personnel on assignments."

"You mean me?" she interrupts.

He nods. "I have worked with some others, but it came to their attention that, in order to maintain anonymity, using an asset who already knows me would be ideal." He pauses, gauging her reaction. "You have shown yourself capable of things above and beyond your comrades," he adds.

She bites her lip, considering what he meant by already knowing him. "I would go on assignments with you? No more ballet cover?"

"If you'd like. You are doing good work here and they were hesitant to move you."

Frowning, she steps closer, and looks him in the eye. She thinks back to the first time she saw him, to the first months she knew him. How cold and distant he always seemed, how different from right now. He seems almost nervous, face no longer kept blank. She wonders if he kept it blank or if there was nothing to show then. He has been awake for a long time, and she thinks he has certainly changed in that time. The Soldier is still precise, mechanized, but now there is more to him than that.

"Did you ask for me?" she questions slowly.

His eyes flicker away for a moment. "Yes."

"Why?"

"You're the best," he answers simply.

"Soldier." He looks back at her. "Is that the only reason?"

He sighs softly, his breath stirring her hair. "The only reason I can discuss," he admits.

"Then I would love to work with you."


	7. Why Is Functional Worth More

**A/N: Thanks for the review! And for all the favorites/followers!**

**7\. Why is functional worth more than sustainability?**

He knows the moment he's been compromised. It was the day after he insisted the Widows spend more time on the firing range than dancing in the training rooms. Their handler was resistant, and had them dancing early in the morning. He'd lost patience and gone to fetch them. When he walked into the facility, he had been transfixed by the ballet. Natalia had a solo part, which she did perfectly, despite her apparent injury. When they'd stopped, noticing his presence, she had still limped a little. Her performance hadn't shown any of that weakness. It was impressive. It was beautiful.

He'd berated himself for a long time after that. There was so little beauty in his life, it was no wonder any he found would affect him. That did not justify allowing his feelings to distort his mission, his purpose. He was a carefully crafted agent of destruction, and he took pride in his work. In any case, he saw the way the other Widows looked at him, and if Natalia didn't, it just further demonstrated her superior aptitude for espionage. It isn't until she comes to speak to him, to thank him, on her last night there that he realizes he is lost. No one else speaks with him like she does, no one else causes him to say things that reveal his innermost doubts about what he is doing. There will be no coming back from this for him.

Other assignments are found for him, staving off his terrible fear of being put back to sleep. He does as he is told, ever searching for an opportunity to see her again. When the Widows require a contact in the field, he is willing to go, and waits patiently until he is asked to pick up a device from her. She is wearing a close-fitting fur coat with her red hair pulled loosely away from her face. It is fortunate he is able to get a good look at her before she notices him. When he catches her inspecting him, she might be blushing and his heart skips a beat. Warning bells go off in his head, compromised, compromised, compromised, but he can't seem to care. He goes on missions with other assets and they quickly prove themselves to be inadequate. Occasionally with a little help from him. Until, at last, he is allowed to go ask Natalia. She has made a name for herself, and, though the men in charge of him are less than thrilled at the prospect of removing her from her situation, she will make a good partner for him.

She sees through him when he recruits her, but is nothing but professional on their first mission together. That's fine with him; he is comfortable focusing on the job. It's good for him to do that again anyway. Knowing that they will be watched closely for a while, he keeps his distance and behaves like the obedient Soldier they think he is. For her part, she is occasionally mischievous in her methods, but always successful in her results. After their sixth mission, he notices that their handlers are no longer trailing them. After the eighth, he is sure they are on their own.

"Natalia," he says quietly as he enters the room where they are staying. It's in a run-down hotel in a poor part of the city. She has arrived before him, which is often the case, and is sitting on one of the beds, leaning against the wall, looking out the window.

Her brow furrows in concern as she turns to face him. "Did everything work out okay?"

"Yes." He shuts the door behind him, locking it, then stands there, silently.

"What is it?" she asks, rising and walking over to stand in front of him, puzzled.

He lifts his right hand tentatively to touch her cheek. Her eyes widen slightly, but she does not grow tense or move away, so he slides his hand forward to cup her chin, and, leaning down, presses his lips to hers. She wraps her arms around his neck and he gently circles her waist with his metal arm, his right hand tangling in her hair, and he is able to forget, for a little while, how this will likely end.

* * *

She stirs faintly in her sleep and he smiles, running his flesh fingers gently down her side, then wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close to him. He can't remember ever feeling this way before. He is so rarely given opportunities to be anything other than a weapon, a destructive force, and a small part of him wonders, has always wondered, if that is all he is good at. But with Natalia... He feels like a person, a man; the way she looks at him makes him want to do great things, to make her as impressed by him as he is by her. He wants to tell her how he feels, but doesn't know how to put it into words. Somewhat desperately, he hopes to find the words before he is put to sleep again. Will she still be there when he is awakened? As if sensing his distress, she twists around to face him, kisses him briefly on the lips, then nestles against his chest. He sighs deeply.

* * *

The next few months are exquisite agony. She is around him all of the time, but most of it he must pretend she means nothing to him. Even when their covers require being close, which is often, they cannot be too convincing or they will arouse suspicion. Still, it is easier to be on a mission with her than back at base. If they are in between assignments, he doesn't see her. He knows he shouldn't, but it turns his days into painful anticipation as he waits to hear of their next job. It is always a relief to go, to see her, even if others are there and they must be discreet.

As an agent, she has certainly come into her own. Her plans are clever and efficient, and she is obviously enjoying herself. He knows that her enjoyment does not only derive from spending the time with him. He is aware that, for her, it's all different. She's younger, hasn't been in the field as long, and went through less brutal modifications to be an asset. No one can rival him and his abilities, but he thinks he would trade that skill and reputation if it meant he could be himself. He isn't sure what that would mean, but her personality is so obvious in what she does, while he is just a ghost story.

* * *

He is sitting in a metal chair. It is uncomfortable. He knows he has sat there many times before, and never remarked on its comfort level. He can't help but think that is a bad sign, and he takes care not to let anyone notice. A technician is upgrading his arm, another reading information the various sensors attached to his person are reporting. He focuses on the arm, thinking he should be grateful that the nerve endings can be shut down, and all he feels is an intense sort of numbness. Better than the soldering that is being done.

Finally, both men are finished and they leave the room. They did not speak to him while there, and do not say any words of parting when they exit. Only Natalia does that. The officer in charge does speak to him, and tells him of the importance of his missions and praises his skills, but no one else has anything to say to the Winter Soldier. The nameless Winter Soldier, he thinks as he stretches out on his cot. It is only one of many things he is aware that he's lost, given up for his country. Was it worth it?

Suddenly, his door swings open and he sits up abruptly, planting his feet on the floor. "Natalia, you shouldn't be here," he whispers as she slips into the room, closing the door behind her.

Her mouth spreads into that smirk with which he is so familiar. "I just wanted to check out the new arm, I won't stay long," she promises.

She sits down next to him, on his left, and inspects the appendage. He holds still while she does so, allowing her to move it. "It responds faster, I think," he says after a moment.

"We'll have to go test it out tomorrow." She raises her eyes to his and he feels like he is falling; a familiar sensation. "You hear anything about a mission? It's been a while."

Seventeen days, he thinks, but doesn't say. "Nothing yet."

"I don't know about you, but I'm not fond of this sitting around and waiting. You want to come spar with me? You know, for old time's sake," she adds with a grin.

He shifts his weight uncomfortably. "I don't know if that's a good idea," he replies quietly, tightening his metal fingers around hers.

"You're probably right. I guess we'll just have to stay here and spar."

He kisses her, and, getting to his feet, picks her up and carries her to the door. Setting her down gently, he says, "I'm sure we'll get out of here soon enough. But you need to go."

She sighs. "Yes, sir." She salutes him with a wink, kisses him once more, and leaves. He shuts the door behind her and leans against it, hating himself for not taking her up on the offer. That's foolish, he berates himself, and hopes she is able to leave his wing without anyone taking notice and wondering why she was there.

* * *

He runs across the rooftop, jumping across the gap to the next building, then dropping onto the top balcony on the far side. Swinging deftly, he soon drops onto the concrete of the alley below, and slows his pace to a walk. He follows the alley to a side street, goes four blocks north, then two blocks west. At the third set of balconies, he pulls himself up and climbs to the fourth floor. He opens the window and slips inside.

"Natalia," he says with a smile, seeing her stretched out on the couch.

She smiles at him and gets to her feet, wrapping her arms around his waist. His metal fingers tighten gently on her hip, and he cups her face in his right hand. "I missed you," she tells him quietly.

"Well, now you don't have to," he replies, kissing her.

* * *

He awakens, momentarily confused. He is lying on a bed in the center of a studio apartment. Natalia is gone. Sitting up quickly, he scans the room, then gets out of bed and dressed. There is nothing to indicate her presence or where she has gone. An unpleasant feeling settles in his stomach and grows stronger as he searches for her. It is a safe house, the people he was targeting won't look for him here, but he is aware that his own people know of this place. And he wonders where they took a wrong step, how they tipped their hand.

It comes as no surprise, then, fifteen minutes later when a group of men dressed in combat gear break the door down. He could have run, he supposes, but he doesn't know where he would go. This is all he knows. So he doesn't fight them, despite that clearly being what they expect, and allows them to take him back to base.

* * *

He sits in that metal chair again, wondering vaguely if next time he sits in it, he won't remember that it is uncomfortable. If he will have forgotten what caring about such things is like. Metal restraints are wrapped around his arms, and there is an IV in his right hand. Perhaps the restraints are to keep him from upsetting that, he thinks hopelessly.

"Soldier, you have betrayed your country and allowed yourself to be compromised. You are a traitor and you will both be punished," the commanding officer is telling him.

"Both?" he asks sharply, against his better judgment.

"As the senior officer, you will bear the brunt of the penalty," the man snarls at him, and he can't help but feel relieved.

"What will happen to her?" he asks. He knows what will happen to him, or can guess; it doesn't matter.

"Romanova is no longer any of your concern. When we are finished here, you will uphold the honor of this nation and maintain your military bearing in all situations. You will work alone, and be the weapon you were designed to be. You will return to your former masters a disgrace and I'd hate to imagine what they will do to you," the officer finishes, then storms out of the room.

The technicians come forward and push him back into the chair. One places a guard in his mouth, and he bites down. The machine behind his head whines as it moves and lowers around his skull. Pain is everywhere and he screams. When it stops, they question him and he answers confusedly. Then the machine works again and he screams more. This repeats until he finally must have answered correctly, because he is released and the men in white leave him alone.


	8. Why Are We So Comfortable

**A/N: Thank you so much for all of those who've given me feedback! I'm so glad you're enjoying this :)**

**8\. Why are we so comfortable in our gullibility?**

He is a good man. There are other men she knows, works with, manipulates. But she could never manipulate him. He believes in what they are doing, and she is not a means to reach an end for him. It is disconcerting to realize that he cannot resist her, even against his better judgment. How meaningful this is to her, since he knew her before she became such a consummate liar. He knows her, and loves her, and risks all that is important to him to be with her. She finds it very difficult to be away from him, to do missions with others. She doesn't know his name or where he comes from (he is NOT Russian), but she knows that no one else could love her so simply. Her job is filled with lies and bargains and using each other, but he does none of these things. He is a destructive force when unleashed, but his tactics are straight forward and somehow honest in spite of everything.

She wishes that she were more like him, that she had been groomed for this, like he was. Her assignments are different, her training different. Her skills are put to good use infiltrating and charming their enemies. He can infiltrate, but no one would ever feel comfortable around him. Except for her. Others are disturbed, or at least put on edge, by his single-mindedness and lack of emotional reactions. Perhaps it is because she grows tired of all the games she must play in the company of anyone else, but she enjoys the peacefulness of time spent with him, where she doesn't have to remember who to be. She is Natalia, and he is the Soldier, and nothing else matters.

* * *

Something wakes her, and she tightens her grip on the cool metal arm wrapped around her waist. Listening carefully, she moves out of his embrace and pads toward the window, wrapping a robe around herself as she does so. In the pocket of the robe is a pistol, and she pulls it out, checking the safety. The shadows move just outside in a way that does not seem natural, and she steels herself for an attack, reaching back to wake the Soldier.

Suddenly, a figure drops into view and she blinks in surprise. It is Yelena. Her fellow Widow beckons almost frantically, glancing behind her. Natalia walks to the window and opens it slowly. "What are you doing here?" she hisses.

"You must come with me, immediately," Yelena replies, moving out of the way.

"Why?"

"I can't tell you here, but it's important. Please, Natalia," the woman begs, looking afraid. It is startling to hear that name again, from someone besides the Soldier.

"Alright, let me get dressed." Natalia can tell this is not part of the plan, but Yelena doesn't protest while she gathers her things and gets ready quickly. She is grateful that her comrade does not comment on the presence of the Soldier in what is clearly her bed. When she is prepared, she bends to kiss him gently on the forehead, then follows Yelena out the window.

* * *

The mission did not seem like it couldn't have waited until morning, but Natalia goes along with it anyway. It is not her job to question such things. It is a simple assassination, but she can see why Yelena would prefer not to undertake it alone. There were a lot of bodyguards and a distraction is always appreciated. When the target is dead, Natalia returns to the apartment where she left the Soldier. She is startled to find it empty, devoid of any hint of either her presence or his. Troubled, she supposes she has no choice but to return to base.

She debriefs her superiors on both of the missions. Despite her curiosity, she knows this is not the time to question what happened to him. When she is finally released from duties and trainings, some days later, she goes to his chamber and is shocked to find it completely empty. The walls are bare and there is not even a hint that he lived here for years. Against her instincts, she rushes out of the room in search of someone in charge. Sokolov is gone, the people she talked to earlier are not known to her. Everyone she asks looks at her as though she has gone insane. Her fitness for duty is questioned. She endures psychological evaluations. She is moved to another facility. Her questions about the Widow program itself are ignored, and there is no sign, no hint or whisper, of her former comrades. Or of him. Eventually, she stops asking.

* * *

She is still one of the best assets they have. After her mental break, as they explain it to her, she is put back on assignments, and executes them as deftly as she always has. But it is different now; she is going through the motions. The joy she once found in her work is gone. So when an American agent finds her, she is willing to listen.

* * *

She runs down the narrow alley, jumping over obstacles, almost to the door that will grant her some safety. Something whizzes passed her head, and suddenly a net appears in front of her. It is too close to slow down and avoid, and it electrocutes her when she makes contact. She goes down, curling into a ball and hoping what happens next will be fast.

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova," a voice says somewhere above her. "You are hereby under arrest for your actions against the United States of America and her allies." A pause. "You really screwed the pooch this time, girl. I wouldn't expect your beloved Mother Russia to come to your rescue." The pain recedes as the net is pulled away and she can see a face hovering above hers. "I'm supposed to kill you, but I've been watching you. And I think you might be willing to come to some other kind of arrangement," the man says, cocking his head at her.

"Like what?" she rasps.

He smiles. "You've got skills. You want to use them for the good guys?"

She snorts weakly. "That's what I thought I was doing."

"I know. But if I can tell that you no longer think that, I wouldn't count on it taking long for your masters to notice and do something about it. So, you gonna come with me willingly?"

He isn't wrong. She sighs heavily. When had she grown so obvious? "I might as well," she shrugs, and he helps her to her feet.

"Let's get out of here before someone tries to rescue you," he advises, taking off the way she came. Wondering if she's made a mistake, she follows him.

* * *

Espionage is the same no matter who you work for. Some things are different here, in America, but much of her work is the same. But, at the end of the day, she has a home to go to, and not always a base. Her personal life is her own business, and SHIELD allows her to have one. Well, much more than she has been permitted at any other stage of her life. She finds herself enjoying her work again, and enjoying her down time is a new experience. The man who brought her in is named Clint Barton. He was a criminal, but was recruited for his impressive skills with a bow. It is a strange thing to see, an intelligence organization valuing innovation to that degree.

It is a while before she is sent on an assignment, and Barton accompanies her on the first several. She stays with SHIELD and is "re-educated" about the state of affairs in the world. It does not really surprise her to find that much of what she was taught was at least skewed, if not outright false. She has always loved learning, and doesn't mind taking a break from risking her life for a little while. Working with Barton is pleasant; he is intelligent and witty and she wonders what it would have been like if they'd met in another life.

After three years with SHIELD, she begins to be sent on missions without Barton. It is a chance to prove herself, and she passes with flying colors. The Director of SHIELD, Nick Fury, takes notice of her. She has met him before, when she was first recruited, but it is a pleasure to get assignments directly from him. She knows that not many agents are so trusted, and she is proud to have garnered this much faith in so little time. Many of her initial missions were testing her loyalty to her old country, and she works hard to show her unfailing loyalty to her new one. But, in reality, she is loyal to Barton, and later to Fury. A country, a government, is too vast a thing to serve unquestioningly. She won't make that mistake again.

* * *

She links arms with the man in the lab coat, smiling broadly at him as though she has known him her whole life. He smiles tentatively back, not as skilled at this game as she. Leading him to the car, she discreetly checks the civilians on the street for any threats, and the windows of the buildings for anything suspicious. Once the engineer is safely loaded in the vehicle, she climbs into the driver's seat and they set off.

The trip is tense, and she is hyper aware of their surroundings, but things go without a hitch. Until they are in the mountains on the road to Odessa. Out of nowhere, the car begins spinning out of control and she is vaguely aware that a gunshot preceded this, clearly striking the tires. The vehicles rolls, and she grabs the man beside her automatically to hold him in his seat until they come to a stop.

"Stay here," she warns softly, briefly glancing over both of them for any serious wounds. Nothing that requires immediate attention. The car is on its side and she slides out the broken windshield, hissing as the glass presses against her. She pulls out her pistols, and maintaining cover behind the vehicle, surveys the area. There is no sign of the sniper, but she knows that doesn't mean anything. One is most certainly here.

Stealthily, she leaves the vehicle and listens for any sound of movement. There is none. She spots a path about fifty yards away that leaves the road and climbs into the hills above. Biting her lip, she makes her way toward it, ready at any moment to be shot. Nothing happens. She climbs silently, following the path as it goes along the road toward where her vehicle, and her mission, are.

An impossible force slams into her side and she tumbles down the cliff, rolling when she hits the road to lessen the impact. Scrambling to her feet, she freezes when she sees her assailant. It's him. There is no doubt in her mind, despite the mask covering half of his face and his hair being longer, even before she sees the metal of his arm glint as he lifts his rifle and aims it at her. A presumably undertrained part of her mind notes that the prosthesis has been upgraded since she last saw him.

"Soldier, wait!" she cries. "It's me! It's Natalia!" She doesn't know if he'd care, she is clearly a traitor to their country. Something flickers in his eyes and he pauses, brow furrowing. But she saw the way he was looking at her before she spoke, as though they've never met, as though neither of them are people, only an asset and a mission, and she knows he will kill her. He will kill her without a second thought. She runs back to her engineer, hearing the sound of the Winter Soldier sliding down the gravel after her, the sound of his heavy boots on the pavement. She pulls the engineer from her vehicle, and puts him behind her, searching for the other weapons she knows are in the glove box.

Finding a grenade, she pauses, listening, then pulls the pin and throws as the Soldier appears just within range. He catches it as she fires her pistols, and he blocks the shots with his arm, tossing the grenade at her car. It explodes before reaching it; she wouldn't have thrown it so early, but she must duck to avoid the shrapnel. A single gunshot echoes through the canyon and a searing pain is in her belly. She looks down and sees that the bullet went through her, and she will likely live, but her engineer is dead. Glancing back, she is not surprised to see that the Soldier has disappeared. There isn't another sound in the canyon as she finds her radio and calls for help.

**End of Part I**


	9. We Are Dysfunctional and Inefficient

**A/N: Thanks so much for everyone who enjoyed Part I! This part takes place around a month after Bucky and Steve have reunited and everyone's in Avengers Tower, however that came about (this could come after either of my other stories on the subject).**

**Part II: Bucky and Natasha**

**1\. We are dysfunctional and inefficient**

There is pain everywhere, he is screaming, they are taking everything away. Everything he has worked so hard to remember, to piece himself together, is leaving him. Steve, and Brooklyn, and the Howling Commandos will be gone. He screams until his throat is raw as his body compliantly leans back and accepts the restraints, doesn't struggle as the metal contraption is lowered around his head. The electricity surges through him and his screams have a different caliber, his fingers wrapping tightly around the armrests of the metal chair, feet straining to move himself out of the cold grip of the machine.

* * *

He awakens violently, covered in a cold sweat, breathing hard. Slowly, he begins to recognize where he is, his bedroom in Avengers Tower. The room is mostly bare, but he feels relieved nonetheless. A note from Steve is on the bedside table and he blinks at it blearily, not interested in reading it just yet, but comforted by the familiar handwriting. He is safe, they haven't found him again, haven't strapped him to that horrible machine. He remembers, well, not everything, but a lot of things. Steve and Brooklyn and the Howling Commandos. More missions than he'd like to recall, but he'll take the bad with the good. It is better to know, he has decided. And must remind himself of frequently, especially after a particularly visceral memory flash.

A month earlier, Steve would have been by his side immediately after a nightmare. Now, he has convinced his friend that he is recovered sufficiently to not need constant supervision. If that means waking up alone and terrified from time to time, he supposes it's worth it not to have Steve worrying himself to death, always on edge. He can't remember right now where Steve is, but reassures himself that this kind of thing comes back quickly enough.

He climbs out of bed and pulls a long-sleeved shirt over his head. He doesn't like looking at his arm, and this is the easiest solution. Wandering into the bathroom, he looks at himself in the mirror and smiles grimly at the ghastly face that greets him. He supposes he might look better if he cut his hair, but the thought of blades that near his face disturbs him. There are triggers he is not prepared for, that make him initiate a fight-or-flight mode, but some are easy to see coming. He works hard to identify the more surprising ones so he doesn't react like that when Steve is around, and see the guilt-ridden horror on his friend's face.

Lifting his right hand, he touches the whiskers on his face and supposes he could at least get rid of that on his own. Smaller blades. His eyes close as he remembers that he had gone to bed early tonight, before dark, due to little sleep the night before. Steve checked with him and made sure it was okay if he went out to do… something. He doesn't know. It's not yet 22:00, so he probably doesn't need to worry about Steve yet. Probably.

Knowing that he will not be going to bed again anytime soon, he decides to take a shower and shave. If there is one thing he most appreciates about being in this time, and free of HYDRA, it is a warm shower. He isn't sure if he bathed while he was the Soldier, and definitely does not want to put too much thought into that kind of thing, but showers were rare and usually cold in the army. He remembers that much. Steve may have noticed his penchant for long showers, but hasn't said anything. The way he looked at him after the first one he had here seemed to indicate that he understood the compulsion. Perhaps Steve reacted the same way when he woke up here two years ago. Now he's probably used to them.

He dresses in comfortable clothes, nothing tight-fitting, and tucks his hair behind his ears. Looking in the mirror, he is surprised by how much younger he looks, clean-shaven and without his hair in his face. He doesn't think he looks particularly healthier, but it is a positive change, at any rate. His throat hurts, though the warm, humid atmosphere of the bathroom helps, he decides to go get something to drink.

The floor is dark, deserted, as he leaves his room and walks down the hall to the kitchen. There are lights along the floor that turn on when he moves passed, so he doesn't switch on any others. Some part of him prefers to avoid doing anything that attracts notice. Fetching a glass from the cupboard by the refrigerator, he turns on the tap and watches the water for a moment before filling the receptacle. Steve went on a date, he remembers suddenly. With… someone he doesn't know. He frowns deeply, staring at his glass, trying to get the name to come. Carter. Something Carter. Sharon. A smile spreads across his face in triumph. He has been assured that his short term memory will return along with the long term ones, but it is daunting to always be in danger of losing everything.

He walks to the living room and turns on the television, not really caring enough to consider changing the channel as he drains the glass and sits down heavily on the couch. Stretching out, he stares at the ceiling and listens to the soft buzz of voices coming from the machine and contemplates if he will be able to sleep again. Something kept him up last night, too, but not a nightmare. Not the intense and realistic aftermath of what would happen if HYDRA found him. No, it had been a memory.

There was a nightclub, he remembers. He had probably killed the men who were standing outside it, though he couldn't be sure. Their injuries would not allow for full recovery if they had survived his attack. Inside the club, someone had fired at him, and he'd fired back. The woman he was sent to kill had been terrified at the sight of him. Most of his memories include that kind of reaction. The horror-filled faces of those he'd killed fill his mind when he tries to sleep. Focus, he tells himself, forcing his mind to follow the mission instead of his current troubles. The woman was killed; others through the back door were killed as well.

He sighs. There is nothing after that. The memories often come back unbidden, forcing him to relive the most stressful experiences of his past. He remembers little of the good events; most of what he knows about his childhood was second-hand from Steve. He does have memories of serving with Steve, and of when Steve was sick or being beaten up, but only a couple of times when they were enjoying something. It is not surprising that he has recalled a great deal of his missions, as those were generally stressful, and almost none of his time between missions. He knows that he was often put in cryofreeze, of course, but he doesn't remember being sent on assignments or more than a few brief snippets of training for them. Not that he particularly wants to know more about anything that's happened in the last seventy years, but it is troubling to have such gaping holes.

This memory was a little different. It was a relatively straight-forward mission, and there weren't any complications. He wasn't injured. He didn't have to fight anyone. Just a few shots and a grenade, and he was done. Perhaps he has relived all of the most stressful parts of his previous life and now only the calmer ones remain. It would be a relief. Something niggles at the back of his mind, though. This one was special for some reason.

He frowns intently at the ceiling, as though it will reveal the answers to him. Though he is aware that the tower has an impressive artificial intelligence presence, he doesn't think it will be helpful in this scenario. Nothing seems to be. The scientists in residence here have offered to do some tests, to try to figure out what they can do to help him. He knows they want to help. But the thought of sitting still while someone pokes and prods at him is unbearable. That is certainly a trigger he can predict. And since one of those scientists could have an even more intense reaction to danger than he does, he is unwilling to take the risk. The scans they could do without upsetting him indicate that he is getting better, and that's good enough for him. For now. He doesn't want to lose himself and hurt people. Maybe someday he'll feel more confident about his ability to resist, but not yet.

The lights of the television flicker across the ceiling, but something else catches his attention, and he turns his head abruptly to see that the lights around the floor in the hallway are turning on. And coming in his direction. He cannot resist getting to his feet quickly, but does manage to keep himself from going to meet the threat.

"I heard you, earlier. You doing okay?" a female voice comes from the darkness. He can see the shape of her faintly; Natasha.

"Yes," he replies shortly, unmoving.

"I didn't mean to startle you, James," she says.

Steve doesn't call him James. Most of the others call him Bucky, or Buck, like Steve does. But she insists on using his first name. He isn't sure why, but doesn't mind. "I'm fine," he says, less gruffly, and sits back down slowly. She stops at the edge of the living room, just visible in the light thrown off by the television. Somewhat surprisingly, she is wearing mission gear, all black. It does explain how she was able to sneak up on him, he supposes.

"Nightmares?" she asks gently.

He nods, looking away from her. "On an assignment?" he changes the subject.

Crossing in front of him, she moves to sit on the far end of the couch, settling in comfortably. He is leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, shoulders tense, and wonders how she can be so at ease most of the time. "No, just training. It helps to do a dress rehearsal," she explains with a smile. "Steve asked me not to leave," she adds, looking at him.

"I don't think that's necessary," he grumbles, forcing himself to lean back.

"That's what I told him, but you know how he is. No one could stand letting him down."

He smiles slightly. "Yeah, he's a good guy."

"He's Captain America," she agrees with a smirk.

"Always looking out for people in trouble," he says emotionlessly.

She cocks her head at him, a strange expression on her face. He raises an eyebrow. "From what I hear, it sounds like he got that from you."

He looks away, frowning, his hands tightening their grip on the fabric of his pants. "Is that what you hear?" He can feel her eyes on him and struggles to keep the way her statement makes him feel out of his voice.

"Yes." She pauses, waiting for a reaction that doesn't come. "James, what do you remember?"

"About what?"

"Your life."

He sighs, feeling some tension leave him at the gesture. He's not a good man; whatever good traits Steve has certainly do not come from him. If he were someone to be admired, to be looked up to, how could he possibly have gone along with what they did to him? Steve wouldn't have. Steve would have stopped it, broken his programming or ending his life rather than bring such evil into the world. But Bucky just went along and became the weapon they'd always wanted. And now the Soldier is gone, but Bucky isn't really back, and he is lost.

"A lot of missions. With HYDRA and against them, during the war. Rescuing Steve." He pauses. "Being rescued by Steve."

"Did you guys rescue each other a lot?" she asks with a smile.

He shrugs. "Enough."

Her brow furrows slightly at his response. "You don't want to continue that tradition?"

"It would be nice to not be in situations where one of us required it. I started it when we met, he can finish it with bringing me here."

"You feel safe here?" She sounds a little surprised. He glances at her, then away when he sees her intense look.

"Usually. Don't you?" he asks.

She folds her arms over her chest and he detects something there that he hasn't before. Her confidence and easy going nature have been pleasant to be around, but they seem to cover up a deep-seated fear that's all too familiar to him. He remembers that she is an assassin, like him, and was likely trained with a similar level of brutality. Besides any physical pain that may have been required in the training, there was the knowledge of ever-present danger that had to be fully accepted to be successful. It is no surprise that neither of them will ever really feel safe.


	10. We're Unprepared, We Are Deficient

**A/N: I just wanted to thank everyone who's reviewed or favorited or followed me. It really means a lot :)**

Justareader13: Thanks for reviewing so frequently and being the first person to review!

Kiwirose: I'm really hoping they do their backstory in the MCU, and thanks so much for saying my writing is phenomenal! :D

Heidi: I'm delighted you like the progression of the story and it's great to hear that it's one of the best Bucky/Nat ones!

Rose: They are a lot like Romeo and Juliet, but hopefully with a happier ending ;)

Garfielda CZ: Thanks for the support! There will be 15 chapters.

Guest: I'm glad you're loving this! :)

RJ: That's one of the best reviews I've ever gotten. Wow. I hope the next chapters are as satisfying.

Miraclesnjoy: Thanks for joining me and reading my other story, too :)

* * *

**10\. We're unprepared, we are deficient**

"From time to time," she answers his question after considering it. Does she feel safe in Avenger's Tower? More so than she has anywhere else. But she doesn't think she will ever feel completely at ease; that was trained out of her at a very young age.

"I hope," he begins, staring intently at his hands, then pauses. She waits patiently for him to finish the question, taking care not to startle him by moving suddenly. "I hope you aren't … feeling unsafe … because of me," he says slowly, very quietly.

"No, James," she assures him, hiding how the statement makes her heart ache. "I know you'd never hurt me on purpose," she says sincerely. He glances at her, almost shyly, and she bites her tongue. "Now, I think this conversation has gotten far too maudlin, so how would you like to come downstairs and do some training with me?"

The vulnerability in his face disappears immediately, and he cocks his head, clearly assessing her. "I'll be fine up here," he answers.

She gets to her feet and holds out her hand to help him up. "That may be true, but I find that exercise really helps in keeping nightmares at bay."

He frowns a little, but places his right hand in hers and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. She leads the way down the hallway to the elevator, which is hasn't moved since she arrived on the floor. As they descend, he stands in the center of the little room and seems tense. She supposes he would be on edge in scenarios that remind him of falling. Steve has told her that he remembers the train mission that supposedly killed him in action. When she asked, Steve was unable to tell her how much his friend remembered of the past, but knew it was largely upsetting memories. To calm James down, he tells him stories about when they were kids together, or about fun times back at base after a mission with the Howling Commandos. Steve was unsure if James has any flashbacks of those kinds of things. Of anything pleasant.

The elevator pings as they reach their floor, and the doors slide open. She walks out into the training floor. To the left, there is a shooting range, enclosed to keep the sound from disturbing everyone else. Ahead, there is ample space on mats for physical training, with some weights and machines at the far end in front of a wall of mirrors. To the right, an interactive obstacle course. She had been practicing there when JARVIS had alerted her to James' distress.

"What would you like to start with?" she asks, looking in his direction.

He is silently surveying the room, and she supposes he hasn't been here before. "Target practice," he suggests, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

"Good plan," she tells him, and leads the way. The door is encoded, but she knows the code. Inside, there is a small armory, which is also locked up tight. She knows how to get into this, too. "Any preferences?" She motions to the array of weapons choices inside the metal locker.

He raises an eyebrow at her in carefully conveyed surprise. "I don't know," he says after a moment.

"Well, take your time. I'm sure you've trained on most of them." He doesn't reply to this suggestion, just stares at the cache of weapons silently. After a moment, she grabs her favorite pistol and walks out to the range as she loads it. Without waiting to see if he will be joining her, she takes her stance and fires expertly at the targets, which move to evade her shots.

"Very nice," his voice behind her comes as a slight surprise.

She finishes her clip before turning to look at him, smiling a little. "Thanks." She doesn't think about how pleased she is with his approval.

He is holding a pistol, too, though of a larger caliber than her own. She steps back and watches him fire his weapon and hit each target easily. His stance is loose and not as rigid as is usual in training areas. It is impressive that he can be so precise without having to hold his body still as he fires. He is a better shot than her, perhaps better than any of them. Clint wouldn't like to hear that, but James is using his real hand and she can't help but imagine his cybernetic one would be even more accurate.

When he's shot all of his rounds, he turns to look at her, a smile tugging at his lips likely as a result of the impressed look on her face. She smiles. "I don't think you really need practice," she states.

He allows his smile to grow at the compliment. "No? You don't see any room for improvement?"

"I don't," she admits. "I'm sure all those targets would have been neutralized." His jaw clenches and she kicks herself mentally for the phrasing. His eyes quickly glance toward the range, assessing. She's losing him. "Do you shoot better with your right or your left?" she asks.

His eyes flicker back toward her briefly, and she waits while he does a visual perimeter check. She remembers doing those a lot when she first came out of the field. "It doesn't matter," he replies quietly, finishing and looking down at his hands.

"Really? I was thinking your left might be more precise," she explains, keeping her voice casual, conversational.

"It was," he answers shortly, setting his pistol down on the table nearby.

She clears her throat and he looks up at her. "You trained your human arm to be as capable as your robotic one?"

"Yes."

There is no pride in the statement, no confidence. Just a statement of fact. She thinks painfully that he was unlikely to have much choice in the matter. "Well, maybe you could give me some pointers," she suggests graciously. When he doesn't respond, she moves forward and reloads both pistols, then stands with one in each hand. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, not that it is the shooting that distresses her, she steps forward and fires. The targets spin and weave around, behind other objects that she must not hit, and she concentrates on eliminating as many as possible. When her clips are empty, she sets the weapons down and turns to look at him.

His eyes were on her throughout, his face unreadable. "Any advice?" she asks.

It is unsettling to have his blue eyes focus on hers, especially when she cannot tell what he is thinking. "It's more accurate to only shoot one at a time," he says at last.

She smiles. "Sometimes I don't have that luxury."

"Stand again like you were," he murmurs, brow furrowing in concentration. She does as asked, wondering if he is remembering something. He circles her and she holds very still, waiting. "Fatigue would be less if you didn't stand so rigidly," he says. He lifts his hands as though he will touch her, correct her stance, but then he drops them back to his sides.

"You're right," she agrees gently. He seems troubled, whether memories are returning or not. "Would you like to do something else now?" He nods. She picks up the weapons and returns everything to where she found it, turning off the targets and locking the doors. He waits outside, near the mats, for her to be finished.

"What's that?" he asks, pointing.

"An obstacle course. It's pretty tough," she admits. "I was having a hard time with it before I came up to check on you." She suspects he'd rather not be made aware that his screaming nightmares are a matter of public knowledge.

"It's for one person?" He is staring at it intently, flexing his metal fingers slowly.

"I'm not sure. You want to give it a try?"

"Yeah."

She leads the way over to it, and opens the door for him. "Be careful. It will shut down if you're in any real danger, so try not to break anything," she teases, tapping his metal bicep.

He smiles slightly. "I'll try."

She doesn't know how Tony, or maybe JARVIS, designed the obstacle course, but it has been different every time she's gone through. Different things pop up, the floor disappears, sometimes there are electrical currents. She bites her lip considering of the last one, and how using electricity on his arm managed to short it out long enough for her to run away. It's too late now, he's already started. She watches silently, thinking of how Steve first described the Winter Soldier: fast, strong, has a metal arm. She can't recall seeing him run before, and he is very fast. He outran Steve, essentially, she reminds herself. It is surprising the course can keep up, though she supposes Tony might want it to be useable when he's in one of his suits.

When he reaches the other side, he is panting, but looks pleased with himself. He pushes his hair out of his face, and walks around to where she is waiting. "Everything is intact," he tells her with a smirk.

She returns the expression. "I can see that. Good job."

"Do you want to go?"

"Not after your performance, no. Maybe when there's an easier act to follow," she jokes.

"Sorry," he says, but looks almost happy.

Letting him be by himself all day is probably not ideal. He should have more things to do, especially things he might be good at, she thinks. She knows what helped her. Even if Steve is here, they don't really do anything, though she'd believe it would be more comforting to have Steve there than keeping himself busy. That kind of thing was never an option for her.

"Now what?" he asks, interrupting her thoughts.

She turns around to face the rest of the room. "Sparring?" she suggests.

He frowns slightly, looking her up and down. "You think that's a good idea?" he says tentatively.

She doesn't, but the idea is tempting. It would be most likely to bring back some memories she has been wishing he had. Of course, he could also kill her pretty easily. She meets his eye. He looks concerned. That's a good sign. "We'll go slow," she replies, walking over to the mats and stretching.

Going slow is not an option, she soon realizes. He's fast, inhumanly so; she knows that. Still, she is able to hold her own for a while. He is concerned about hurting her and holds himself back, and she knocks him to the mat a few times since he isn't using his left arm if he can help it. At one point, she jumps and wraps her legs around his shoulders. She can feel that something is different as he uses his left hand to throw her violently from him.

"Predatel," he hisses, glaring down at her. And she decides this was definitely a bad idea.


	11. And We Only Kill For the Bottom Line

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, and followers :)**

**11\. And we only kill for the bottom line**

He crouches, ready to spring, as the target, the traitor, stares at him in surprise.

"Bucky!" she cries and he stops, hesitating, confused. "James, Bucky, it's me, Natasha. You're safe here. Steve is here. You're not on a mission. No one is going to hurt you," she says soothingly.

He blinks, standing back up straight. Then his shoulders slump and he stares at the floor intently. "I'm sorry," he mutters, and turns to leave quickly.

"Wait," she says, gently resting her hand on his flesh shoulder. "It's okay." He holds still, listening to her move closer, both of them still breathing hard from the sparring. When she stands in front of him, he doesn't look up. "It was my fault, I shouldn't have pushed you," she says quietly. He can feel her eyes on him, gauging his reaction.

"I should go," he replies. Something like disappointment passes over her face.

"Are you sure? You don't have to be alone if you don't want to be."

His brow furrows slightly. "I think it would be for the best. I'll… I'll see you later," he says and backs away from her, then walks around her to the elevator. When he turns around to press the button for his floor, she hasn't moved. He is silent as he waits for the doors to open again. When he exits, he is somewhat surprised to find that the lights are on. He moves stealthily toward the kitchen, listening carefully. When he reaches the room, he leans nonchalantly against the wall.

"Damn it, Bucky, you scared me half to death," Steve says when he notices him.

"Sorry," he answers quietly.

Steve puts the milk back in the refrigerator, shaking his head in mock chagrin. "Living with a bunch of assassins is getting a little old," he says.

"You could move," he suggests.

Steve turns to face him, frowning slightly. "You wouldn't move with me?"

He considers. Briefly. "I'm not the only assassin you live with," he clarifies.

"True. Well, Tony doesn't seem to collect rent, at least in the traditional sense, and the place I was working no longer exists, so I don't have a job… This is probably the best I can do right now."

"Yeah, you're really slumming it, living here," he mutters.

Steve laughs. "I know, it's rough. But we've been through worse."

"Yeah," he says quietly, looking away.

Seeing the look on his face, Steve walks over and studies him from about a yard away. "Did something happen while I was gone?" he asks.

With a sigh, he nods. "A few somethings."

"You shaved," Steve guesses, an attempt at humor.

"Yep."

"What else?" Steve looks around what he can see of their floor. "I don't see anything damaged," he says quietly.

"Nothing was."

"Come on, Buck, tell me what's going on."

No one could stand letting Steve down, he thinks of Natasha saying. "I had a nightmare. About… being taken again."

"Oh, Buck," Steve begins.

"I'm fine," he interrupts. Steve looks like he'd like to continue, but settles for frowning sadly at him. "Natasha came when she… to check on me. We went downstairs, to the training rooms. We did target practice, and that was okay. I mean, I haven't shot at anything since… Well, in a while," he stops himself. "Anyway, the obstacle course was fun, a good challenge."

"Then what?" Steve asks when he falls silent.

"We fought."

"Bucky…"

"We didn't… I mean, I didn't hurt her. But I kind of lost control of myself for a moment," he admits haltingly.

"Where is she?"

He shrugs. "Downstairs, I guess."

Steve puts his hands on his hips, clearly upset. "Come on," he says at last, turning around abruptly and walking toward the living room. Obediently, he follows and sits next to his friend when he sits on the couch. "Do you want to talk about it?" Steve asks quietly.

"I don't know. I thought… I remembered when I was sent on an earlier mission, maybe. It was a briefing, anyway. I was supposed to kill her for defecting. I'm not sure. I called her a traitor. I was angry," he says, the words coming out in a rapid stream, unbidden.

"Bucky, she's fine. You obviously caught yourself in time. Don't beat yourself up about it," Steve tells him.

He wishes he could be obedient to Steve in this situation, but he can't. The way she looked at him… He hadn't realized she might be added to the faces he sees before he goes to sleep, that keep him from going to sleep. Steve's face is already among that number. He supposes he should be glad that at least two of them are still alive.

"I don't know why you let me live here," he mumbles, putting his face in his hands.

Steve moves a little closer and puts his arm around his shoulders. "Because you're my friend." They sit in silence for a few moments and he allows himself to be somewhat comforted. "Besides, where else would you live? I'm pretty sure our old apartment isn't available, and you'd have to deal with the whole 'legally dead' thing, which, believe me, is a lot of paperwork."

He snorts. "Did you really go through all that?"

Steve looks at him askance, pulling his arm back, and he supposes it was foolish of him to ask. Of course he did. He's Steve. "Yes. I had some help, though. Nick Fury really wanted me to work for him, so he took care of quite a bit. But I know it was a pain," Steve said emphatically.

"I have a feeling he'd be less than thrilled to do that for me," he observes.

Steve smirks. "I don't know, maybe he won't hold a grudge. I mean, you didn't kill him. How mad can he justify being?"

"I did shoot him three times in the chest."

"You did. But you shot me three times, and we're still friends. And you shot Natasha twice, and she doesn't mind hanging out with you." He frowns deeply, and Steve stops with the jesting tone. "Sorry, too far," he mutters, looking apologetically at him.

"Twice?" he asks softly.

"You don't remember?"

"I don't… know."

"She said she was escorting an engineer, I think, out of Iran and you intercepted her outside of Odessa. Shot out the tires, then shot the engineer through her. Anything?"

He shakes his head slowly, but then nods. "I think I've remembered parts of that."

"That's good," Steve says enthusiastically. "Well, I mean, sort of," he adds quickly.

"It's fine. What was the second?" he wonders.

"When you were fighting me on the bridge. Well, right before that, actually."

Steve doesn't specify, and he prefers it that way. He doesn't need to know what scars his friends carry because of him. Or maybe he does. Then he would know how much he needs to do to reclaim himself.

"Bucky, talk to me. Don't just internalize this stuff," Steve warns him.

He sighs. Steve's one to talk. "What would you suggest I do instead?"

"Let people know how you're doing. Talk to Sam, he's good at this kind of thing. But I'm always here. We all want to help."

"I know."

They sit in silence for a few moments, Steve clearly waiting patiently, he not sure what to say. He stares intently ahead, thinking. What set him off? Sparring is certainly something that was likely to be a trigger, since he has a great deal of memories involving fighting hand-to-hand. But he'd been fine for a while. It wasn't until she'd jumped on his shoulders that some memory had stirred and taken over. He supposes it was from fighting her on the bridge.

"Steve… How close did I come to… to killing her?" he asks quietly. He knows how close he got to killing Steve.

His friend looks at him painfully. "You shot her from a distance through the shoulder. When I ran up, you had jumped on a car and were about to shoot her despite her taking cover behind another car."

He closes his eyes. He can see her face, looking back at him, terrified. It certainly explained her initial hesitance where he was concerned when he arrived here. And it made her present friendliness all the more surprising. "Why would she be willing to be around me?" he mutters aloud.

"Buck. It wasn't you. It was the Soldier. You were just doing what you were told."

Frowning, he considers what he remembers of the situation. He'd pulled a man out of the car Steve and Natasha and Sam were in. He'd chased them, shooting Steve off the overpass. Then he'd followed her, sending his men after Steve. She'd fought him, tricked him, and almost gotten away. When she had run after shocking his arm, he had taken a little time to find her and taken careful aim. And shot. Then ran up to get a better angle, before Steve had arrived and he'd fought him.

"She said I was very accurate at the shooting range," he says suddenly.

"I'm not surprised," Steve replies with a small smile.

He turns to look at his friend. "Why... When I was going after her on the overpass, I remember aiming very carefully."

Steve frowns, confused. "Well, you were a ways back, it's understandable that you didn't kill her."

He is shaking his head before Steve finishes speaking. "I wasn't aiming to kill her."


	12. What Happened That Made Us Want To Be

**A/N: Thanks for all the support :)**

**12\. What happened that made us want to be blind?**

When the elevator doors close, she inhales deeply, and forces herself to move from her spot on the floor. She walks over the elevator and waits patiently for it to return for her, her mind kept carefully blank; what just happened is not something she's going to dwell on. When it arrives, she returns to her own room and takes a shower. When she is done, she dresses in loose clothes and sits on her bed, staring intently at the floor, thinking.

A knock at the door interrupts her, and she frowns. It's close to midnight; who would bother her now? Hesitantly, she gets to her feet and opens the door. Steve standing there, looking a little awkward, is not particularly surprising.

"How was your date?" she asks, smiling.

"It was fine. Sorry, if I'm interrupting. I just wanted to talk to you," he says haltingly.

"Check on me, you mean? I'm fine," she assures him.

He runs his fingers through his hair. "It's not that. I mean, no, that's great, he was pretty worried about it, so I'll make sure to tell him, but," he trails off, frowning.

"Spit it out, Rogers."

Glancing up and down the hall, he shrugs. "He was remembering some things. Can I come in?"

Perplexed, she steps back from the door and lets him walk passed her. Folding her arms over her chest, she leans against the door until it closes and watches him pace a few times across the room perpendicular to her.

"What's up?" she asks, gently.

He stops and looks at her closely. "We were talking about when he shot you. Both times," he clarifies, watching her for a reaction. She raises an eyebrow. "He didn't really remember either one until I told him about them. Then he had some fascinating insight into the second one. Natasha, is there something you're not telling me?" he asks, sounding upset.

"What do you mean?" she responds.

"Is there more to the Odessa story than you told me?"

Feeling something like relief, she shakes her head slowly. "No, nothing worth mentioning."

He frowns. "Bucky said that, on the highway, when he shot you, he was aiming for your shoulder. He wasn't trying to kill you." She can feel the color drain from her face, but manages not to respond otherwise. Steve meets her eye. "He said his missions are always to kill, not capture, so he doesn't know why he didn't aim somewhere more deadly. Can you explain that to me?" he asks, a quiet command in his tone.

She closes her eyes and pulls herself into her desk chair, only a few feet away; she didn't think she could make it to the bed before sitting down. Her breathing is coming faster than normal, she can feel her elevated heart rate, and knows her hands are shaking. Steve is immediately by her side, worrying over her. She doesn't listen to whatever else he might be saying.

After a few moments, she regains her composure and looks up at him. "I'm not sure," she answers his question. He looks perplexed, likely forgetting what he'd asked. "I may be able to explain it," she clarifies.

"I'm sorry if I upset you," he says painfully.

She shakes her head. "Did you read my SHIELD file?"

"No."

She smiles; it would surprise her if he had. "Did you read the Winter Soldier's?"

Nodding, he looks away. "Yeah, when I was trying to find him."

"There were things expunged from both of those files. Things no one knows about now, except for me."

"What kinds of things?" he asks, folding his arms over his chest and looking down at her quizzically. He doesn't know where she's going with this. She takes a deep breath, considering how much she should say.

"When I was thirteen, I was sent to a facility to train to be a Black Widow. It wasn't my first time receiving that kind of education, but it lasted the longest. There were over two dozen of us at the start. By the time I was seventeen, there were only seven of us. A few months before we graduated from the program, they brought in a special instructor for us." She clears her throat, meeting his gaze. "It was the Winter Soldier."

"Bucky?" he whispers, clearly shocked by the information.

"Yes. He taught us how to shoot, how to fight, and how to speak properly."

He frowns, digesting this. "So he didn't kill you because he knew you? You were his student?" he guesses.

She bites her lip, considering leaving it at that. "That's part of it," she says at last.

"There's more?"

"Yes."

He sits down on the edge of her bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at her. "Continue," he says quietly.

She looks away. "JARVIS, my room is still a dead zone in the surveillance system, right?" she asks.

"Yes, Miss Romanoff."

"Good. Shut down connection for the next twenty minutes."

"Yes, ma'am."

Steve is frowning at her heavily now. "What are you doing?"

She sighs. "Promise me you won't tell him, or anyone, what I'm about to say."

"I promise," he says sincerely.

Looking down at her hands, she takes a deep breath, then plunges in. "After I was in the field for a while, he came to ask me if I wanted to be his partner on missions. The Russians were trying to get their money's worth, so to speak, before sending him back to HYDRA, I suspect. So they didn't put him in cryo for a couple years. Anyway, I agreed. And, well…" She pauses, feeling an unfamiliar discomfort tie her tongue. "We were… close."

"Close?" he repeats.

She glances at Steve and almost laughs at his dumbfounded expression. "Yeah. Somehow, our masters found out about us, and they separated us. I don't know what they did to him, but they made me think I'd never been trained by him, never worked with other Widows, never gone on missions with him later. I thought I'd lost my mind for a while."

She waits while he takes this all in. "When did you realize it was them, not you, making you think you'd lost it?" he asks suddenly.

Frowning, she considers. "Honestly?"

"Yes," he says with a small smile.

"Just now, when you told me he wasn't trying to kill me," she admits quietly.

He stares at her. "Nat," he begins slowly.

"I mean, I had my suspicions. I'm not an idiot, Rogers."

"I know."

"Don't, um, don't tell him," she adds.

"Why not?"

She sighs. "I know you just started dating Sharon, but how would you feel to discover that you'd tried to kill her several times? It's complicated, Steve. If he doesn't remember, maybe that's for the best."

Steve gets to his feet and walks over to her, putting his hand on her shoulder. Natasha doesn't move, but feels a little less alone. He has some idea what she's been going through since the Winter Soldier came back into her life a few months ago, after all. Maybe in a different way, but similar enough. Perhaps she was wrong not to have confided in him earlier. But she didn't know for sure that her memories were genuine; the organization had a nasty habit of implanting as well as removing such things.

"Nat, I know what you're thinking, but maybe it would be good for him to know that he had something… good happen to him while he was with HYDRA. That is wasn't all killing and destruction," Steve clarifies.

She shakes her head slowly. "You don't think he's under enough pressure as it is?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"He's trying to be Bucky, for you. Even though he doesn't remember much, at least not the good stuff, about being Bucky. I don't want him trying to be someone for me on top of that."

Nodding slowly, he takes a few steps away from her. "I don't know if that's how it would be, but maybe we should give him some time anyway."

Natasha gives him a small smile. "You mean so he can remember it on his own and save us the trouble of having to make a decision?"

"Here's hoping," he replies with a grim expression.

"Get some sleep, Steve," she tells him and he nods, clearly somewhere far away. She watches him go out the door, shutting it behind him. Then she puts her head in her hands and gives in to her feelings for once.


	13. What Is It In Us That Made Us Believe

**13\. What is it in us that made us believe in all of the lies spoon fed to us**

After Steve asks him some more questions, he goes to bed. Steve clearly wanted to talk more, but is willing to let him go. For now. He supposes he can look forward to continuing that conversation when he wakes up. Lying in bed, he stares at the ceiling and considers what he'd done to end up here. He was very, very lucky that the one person who could break his programming was still alive, and unchanged, seventy years later. If Steve hadn't been frozen, would he ever have stopped being the Soldier?

HYDRA's plan was to kill anyone who might be considered a threat. They had the technology to do it, and the program to find the targets. It seems like they had made him obsolete. He shudders to think what would have happened to him if the helicarriers were successfully launched. It's possible that he may have been kept around for his reputation, and ability to do more than just assassinate. But HYDRA had plenty of spies; it was unlikely that it would be worth the trouble to wipe him and freeze him continually. If he had been turned into this because of his friendship with Steve, with Captain America, they may have kept him around as a weapon against him, but he wouldn't count on that.

So it seems his Soldiering days would have been at a close, however the fight on the helicarriers had gone. He is forever grateful to Steve that it went as it did, but he wonders if it might have been better to be done with this mess. Steve would be upset to know that he occasionally thinks this way, but he can't help but consider whether or not it is possible to stop being a weapon. A desk job and a wife and some kids and a white picket fence are not an option for him. There is no going back to normal life, no coming back from this war.

* * *

He must have fallen asleep, because daylight is streaming in through his window. He blinks at it blearily, surprised to have slept so late, especially without any disturbances. Things usually come back during the night. Stretching, he climbs out of bed and dresses quickly. His belly rumbles and he can't remember if he had dinner the night before.

The floor is empty as he pads down to the kitchen. Steve may be asleep, or have already left for the day. He isn't sure what day it is; if he should expect Steve to leave. After making breakfast, he carries his plate to the living room and switches on the television; it's too quiet up here. When he's done eating, he sets his plate carefully on the coffee table and stretches out on the couch.

Most of his days, when Steve is gone, are spent in contemplation. Sometimes he remembers things. He works through his memories and tries to piece them together, to figure out exactly who he was and perhaps who he is. Considering what he'd noticed yesterday, about Natalia – Natasha, he corrects himself. Why hadn't he shot to kill? He is almost certain that she was one of the targets Pierce had told him about (though he is always hesitant to feel certain about anything in his distorted memories). He knew his mission was to kill Steve. Was he defying his programming already from seeing Steve for the first time in seventy years? Or was there something else?

Most of that fight has come back to him; he knows they wiped him right afterward. He goes over it thoughtfully, and frowns. She was clever; he had been kept more on his toes against her than fighting Steve. That had been more intense, of course, but she tricked him several times. When he drove her off the opposite edge of the bridge, she'd surprised him by suddenly appearing below and shooting him before he could fire on Steve. His goggles had been hit and he'd removed them, then shot downward where she had been. It wasn't particularly surprising that she had moved, but he had been angrier than he usually was on missions. Of course, none of the others that he had recalled involved anyone outwitting him in any way. They were horrifying to consider because of how efficient he had been.

What happened next? He frowns, thinking of jumping down after she'd run away. Had she run to draw him off of Steve? Then she'd set up some sort of recording of her voice, and he had become motionless to listen and then to quietly send a grenade her way. Why had he stopped? How could he have known whose voice it was?

* * *

"Hey, Bucky, you up?" Steve calls from down the hallway.

He turns from where he was standing at the window, staring out intently. "Yes," he responds quietly.

Steve walks into view and stops. "You okay, Buck?" he asks, looking concerned.

"I'm fine," he says automatically. "What's up?" He notices Steve is wearing his suit, and seems in a hurry.

"Clint and Natasha were running surveillance on a HYDRA safe house when some came back. They went in, but are outnumbered and Nat just called for backup. Stark and Thor aren't around, and I don't think Bruce is up for a mission, so I was hoping you might come with me?" The mission is reported with the calm leadership he remembers from the war, but the request at the end is tentative, concerned.

"Alright," he answers, because what else is he doing with his time?

Steve grins. "Great. Let's get you suited up, then."

* * *

Wearing his Winter Soldier gear feels strange, but not unpleasant. It was not designed with his comfort in mind, of course, but it is efficient and excels at keeping such a valuable asset safe in most situations. The HYDRA safe house is in the City, so, in surprisingly little time, he finds himself in the thick of things. Natasha and Clint are pinned down in an abandoned apartment building, the fourth floor of which was a safe house. It is the first time he has seen Steve go from being, well, Steve to being Captain America since the war. He feels a not inconsiderable sense of pride at the transformation. Not that Steve needs to change to be a great man; it is just remarkable to see his more humanizing characteristics fall away when he goes on a mission. He remembers why he chose to follow him, all those years ago.

"Okay, they're on the third floor, southwest corner. There are three HYDRA guys on each floor, and about seven keeping Nat and Clint where they are," Steve is explaining quietly as they approach. "There are more on the fourth floor, we don't know how many."

"About seven?" he asks.

"There were ten, but I'm sure our friends have taken care of a few of them by now," Steve replies with a smile.

"What's the plan, Captain?"

If they weren't about to be in a combat situation, the statement would have elicited more of an emotional response from both of them. As it is, though, his voice breaks slightly on the last word, and Steve blinks and clears his throat once.

"I'll start at the front door and head up. You're better at stealth; sneak around the back and get in there to even the odds." He pauses, meeting his eye for the first time since they left the tower. "You can do this, Buck."

"I know," he replies, not saying that he is fully aware of his ability to take down a threat. It's what happens afterward that concerns him. "See you in there."

Steve nods, pats his back once, then runs off in the direction of the door. He gets to his feet as well and moves silently around the back of the building. When he reaches the southwest corner of it, he jumps out to grab and pull himself onto the fire escape. He can hear Steve engaging with the men on this floor, hopefully covering the small amount of noise the metal structure made when he struck it. Hastily, he climbs up to the third floor and stops, listening.

He can clearly hear gunfire, presumably Natasha's, and the shouts that usually accompany that sort of thing. Leaning forward slowly, he looks inside, but cannot see anything of the fight. Silently, he wrenches open the window and drops to the ground inside, crouching. He appears to be in a bedroom, though it is hard to tell. Moving slowly so his boots don't make a sound, he makes his way toward the noise. When he pushes the door slightly to look out, he sees a group of three men taking cover behind an ancient desk. The wood is probably thick enough to protect them from gunfire.

Unlike previous missions, he is not well-equipped with an array of different weapons for any situation he may come across. All he took with him is a rifle and a couple of knives. Not wishing to immediately alert any other personnel to his presence, he pulls out one of the blades and, aiming carefully, throws it so that it strikes the closest man at the base of his skull. He goes down immediately, and his fellows whip around in search of the threat. They don't see him, and he throws his other knife, striking the next man in the throat. The third begins spraying bullets indiscriminately in his direction.

Dropping to the floor, he pulls his rifle up in front of him, and manages to shoot the last man in the head without rising enough to be within his line of fire. He gets to his feet slowly and, checking carefully, walks over to retrieve his knives. Wiping off the blades on their clothes, he sees that one of the men has a few grenades on him. Glancing around briefly, he picks up a couple of these and tucks them into his pockets.

On the other side of the desk is a large open room, where more men were taking cover behind a partition. They heard his approach, or at least the gunfire of the last man, and moved to hide between some old couches, so they are no longer vulnerable in his direction. He sighs inwardly; he hasn't found Natasha or Clint, though they must be close, so he can't risk using the grenades, and shooting may not be the best plan, either. Pulling his rifle over his shoulder, he leans down and plants his feet, getting a good grip on the desk, and pushes. It skitters across the linoleum floor, despite its immense size, and slams into the couch that separates them from him.

Before they can react to their exposure, he sprints after the desk and uses his metal fist to make quick work of the threat. The three of them are down and he stands up, panting slightly. Downstairs, he can hear Steve, likely on the second floor. Turning to survey the room, he finds Clint leaning against the wall nearby, bow in hand, a smirk on his face.

"Hey, nice to see they got you out of the house," he says.

"Where's Natasha?" he responds, looking around.

Clint frowns. "She got pinned down in that corridor, I think she's in the storage room. I was heading her way when these guys found me."

"Steve's downstairs. It sounds like he could use some help."

"Okay, I would do better with some more room to maneuver, so you want to go get Nat and I'll join Cap?" Clint asks. He nods, and moves in the direction he indicated Natasha was trapped.

There is a door that leads to some kind of service area. It is a tight space, and he can hear gunfire coming from the end. He is relatively sure some of the shots are from Natasha's pistols. He cannot tell how many others are down there, and moves very quietly to keep them from noticing his entrance. When he reaches the end of the hallway, he presses himself against the wall and listens to the fight going on in the small concrete room to his right. It is apparent that Natasha, at least, is out of ammo, and the fight has become purely hand-to-hand. He smiles.


	14. By the Ones Who Always Stand To Profit

**A/N: One more chapter after this! Please read and review! (updating schedule may change a bit because I'm going to Comic Con to meet Sebastian Stan!)**

**14\. By the ones who always stand to profit from our loss**

She twists around, bringing her heel down hard on the head of the nearest man. He drops, but she knows he will get back up; he was wearing a helmet. Another man runs at her while she is distracted and knocks her to the floor. Rolling, she gets herself away and back on her feet again, but she's lost ground. There are too many of them, and they are prepared for her, while she was not for them. She loses Clint and soon finds herself backing down a corridor, alarm bells ringing in her head as she feels the walls closing in around her.

It's somewhat fortunate that the hallway opens onto a small utility room, giving her more space to maneuver. It also bottlenecks her attackers, but she knows she will not last long without help. Out of ammo, she moves as fast as she can to bring down as many men as possible, even if it is only temporary. When there are four men on the ground, she has a moment to breathe while five more stand back and assess her, perhaps considering shooting her. Then she dives forward.

Suddenly, she finds herself with each arm held immobile by a man, while another is approaching her. She is quickly searching for an escape route when a metal hand wraps around his neck and he is swung against the wall with bone-shattering force. The men holding her tighten their grip and pull her back as the Winter Soldier steps into view. Two other men are in the room with them, and are brought down in a matter of moments. He turns to look at her, and her captors, and takes a step forward before reinforcements come at him from behind. One in particular is quite large and heavily armored. She watches in suspense as he fights them, bringing several down at a time.

A touch on her waist makes her look down, and she sees one of the men holding her grab one of her taser disks. "James!" she cries to warn him as he throws it.

James has his metal hand wrapped around the throat the man in an armored suit, and the man holding her is aiming for this. He lifts his other hand at the last moment and catches it, a guttural sound escaping him as it shocks his body, but his arm keeps its hold on what would surely become a significant threat. The grip on her arms slackens just enough in their surprise for her to break free. She kicks one and elbows the other, then plunges into the melee. In a matter of moments, she is standing, breathing hard, in the center of the room and there are men on the floor all around.

"James!" she cries, running over to him. He is on his knees, still being shocked, his hand closed tightly over the windpipe of the now-dead officer. She wrenches his right hand open to get rid of the disk, getting a little shocked in the process, and kneels beside him, arm around his shoulders.

"You always amaze me," he mutters, nodding toward the fallen men.

She bites her lip, pushing down the question she wants to ask, and helps him silently to his feet. "You're not so bad yourself," she answers after a moment. "What are you doing here?"

Something flickers in his eyes, disappointment, maybe, and he looks away. "Steve brought me to help," he says emotionlessly.

"It's appreciated. I don't know if I would have been able to walk out of here," she says sincerely, cocking her head as she listens for any other threats.

"I'm sure you would have been fine," he murmurs, moving away from her and toward the hallway to leave.

She wants him to stop, to explain to her what he was thinking when he said "always," but she decides that would be better discussed at a later time. Taking a couple pistols off the men around her, easier than reloading, she follows him down the narrow passage. It is surprising how silently he can move, she thinks, watching him. They reach the main room at last and he stops walking, listening. He slowly lowers himself into a defensive stance, glancing at her briefly, and she hears approaching footsteps.

"Oh, thank God," Steve says as he bursts through the door, Clint quick on his heels. James stands again, a slight smile of greeting on his face.

"Glad to see you got out of that, Nat," Clint adds.

"Me too. Good thing you brought James," she tells Steve, who looks pleased.

"Everyone's okay?" Steve asks, looking quickly between the three of them.

"Yeah, we'll be fine," Natasha answers, glancing at James to verify the statement. His eyes meet hers for a moment, a strange expression on his face.

"Okay, let's head upstairs," Captain America orders. She looks at him in surprise, but nods. There are more men up there, plus whatever they are protecting. It's why she and Clint came here in the first place.

They fall into a sort of formation and move toward the stairs. Steve leads the way, with Clint a little behind. She is following Clint, and James stays close to her. Steve has his shield up, Clint has his bow somewhat drawn, she holds her pistols at the ready, but James just walks, his rifle slung over his shoulder. When he catches her looking at him, he gives her a small smile, then continues to survey their surroundings, searching for threats. She forces herself to focus on the mission at hand.

The building appears empty, silent, as they make their way down the hallway between apartments and up the large staircase at the front. There is no sign of immediate threats, or even any occupation, when they reach the main area in the front of the floor. Steve motions for them to fan out and continue, and they spread out against the walls. Natasha is not surprised when James remains nearby, but bites her lip as she considers his behavior.

Suddenly, a grenade rolls into their midst. She recoils automatically, but James rushes forward and grabs it with his left hand, tossing it out the window in the few seconds it takes to go off. He has to duck to avoid the broken glass, and she pulls back as well, but they are otherwise unharmed.

"Good job, Buck," Steve mutters while Clint pinpoints where the projectile came from and shoots one of his exploding arrows in that direction.

After it goes off, there is chaos everywhere. She fires into what seems like an endless supply of HYDRA soldiers coming toward them, sometimes forced to fight more personally when they get too close. She is aware of her allies fighting around her, and a small part of her considers how to better approach this situation as she kicks and punches men wearing armor. Some of them stay down, some of them she has to shoot to keep down.

A blinding light from a flash grenade forces her to cover her eyes, and the next thing she knows, she's on her back. A heavy weight is on her chest, and fingers close around her throat. She fumbles for her Widow's Bites, but someone grabs her arms and pins them to the floor. Breathing with difficulty, she glares up at the large man holding her down, who smiles. His grip tightens, and she starts to see black spots float around her vision. She feels herself being lifted off the ground and flung roughly across the room, slamming into the wall and dropping to the floor in a heap. The pressure returns to her throat and she reaches groggily to stop it as she is again picked up and thrown. Glass shatters around her and she is vaguely aware of going out a window.

Something cold wraps around her wrist, arresting her fall. She reaches automatically with her other hand to grab at the something, which she realizes is James' arm. His other hand grasps hers and he pulls her back into the building. She stumbles a little when he sets her on her feet, and he wraps an arm around her waist to hold her steady, watching her intently.

"Thanks," she says quietly, holding onto his shoulder.

"No problem," he replies, looking away.

She surveys the room. There is some kind of device the size of a crate in the back corner, with only a handful of men remaining to guard it. Steve and Clint are back a little ways, fighting the larger group of agents in what was likely the living room. James and she are in a bedroom. Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen, but this realization brings a little smirk to her face.

"You ready?" he asks, raising his arm to block the bullets being fired at them.

"Always," she answers, and darts forward. After she's taken down two of the men, which requires a little more effort than she expects, she looks around to find that James has handled the rest. He is standing still, watching her. She smiles at him, then walks over to the device. It is about three feet wide, four feet tall, and five feet long, completely metal with piping and blinking lights. Still, it seems to be a box-like shape, and looks to have a lid.

"How are they doing?" she questions, glancing back at James.

He looks in the direction of Steve and Clint, then back to her. "They've got only two guys left. Should be joining us any minute."

"Do you think we should wait to open this till then?"

His brow furrows as he frowns at her. "Yes." He walks up to stand beside her, looking down at it. "What is it?"

"I don't know. But since HYDRA had it far more heavily guarded than we expected, it's probably not something we should just leave laying around," she replies.

"It looks heavy," he points out dubiously.

"Good thing we have a couple of guys with super strength to help us move it," she answers with a grin.

He smiles slightly back. "I'm sure that's what they wanted us for: to lift heavy objects."

Laughing briefly, she looks toward Steve and Clint. They've knocked everyone down and are headed over. "James, can I ask you something?" she whispers quickly.

"What is it, Natalia?" he murmurs with a puzzled frown.

"What you said earlier – " she begins.

"Well, that was a fun way to spend the morning," Clint interjects, plucking an arrow out of a man nearby.

"What is this thing?" Steve asks, walking over toward it. His eyes flicker between James and Natasha, and settle on her, questioning more than just the mission.

"We don't know. We didn't expect to find anything valuable here, just some prisoners," she replies.

Steve nods. "You okay, Buck?" he asks, putting his hand on his friend's shoulder.

James winces. "Yeah, just a little shocked. I'll be fine."

"Good. Should we transport this back to the tower?" he asks, looking at Clint then Natasha.

"I'm not carrying that thing," Clint answers as he moves around the room to collect his arrows.

James shrugs when Steve looks at him, and Natasha steps forward. "I think we should know what it is before we take it home with us," she suggests, and feels around for a locking mechanism. Steve looks at her with some distress, but doesn't intervene. Finding it, she pulls the lid open and a blast knocks her backward, into the far wall.

She is aware of lying in a heap on the floor, again, but feels arms wrap around her and pull her into a semi-reclined position. "Natalia, Natalia, please wake up," James voice is urgent in her ear. Her eyes flicker open and she sees his face upside-down above her, and is confused. Then she realizes she is lying with her head on his lap, his human hand on her shoulder, close to her face.

"James?" she murmurs weakly.

"Natalia!" he cries in relief, and kisses her.


	15. Exploiting Our Misery and Selling It

**A/N: I apologize for posting this so late today! I tried to get it in sooner, but it wasn't loading properly on my Nook. More importantly, Sebastian Stan said he liked my outfit, so I was a little distracted :) Anyway, I really appreciate everyone who's reviewed and favorited/followed, and I hope this ending lives up to (at least some of) your expectations!**

**15\. Exploiting our misery and selling it back to us for a cost**

"What the hell. I'm glad he didn't do that when he rescued me,"Clint's voice brings his attention back to the room.

He stops kissing Natalia and looks up, embarrassed to have lost control of himself. Barton is looking at him in surprise, and Steve looks like he might be smiling. He turns his attention back to Natalia, who is stirring and blinking up at him. With difficulty, he resists the urge to kiss her again.

"Sorry," he mumbles, hastily getting to his feet and helping her to do so as well.

"No need to apologize to me, man. It looks like she was enjoying it," Clint says with a grin.

He looks intently at the floor, but is aware that Natalia glares at Clint, who throws up his hands in defeat. Steve makes his way over to him, but doesn't touch him. "I think we can call someone else to get this. I don't know about you guys, but I'm going to be sore in the morning. Let's head home," he says. Then Steve claps him once on the shoulder, before turning away and pulling out his phone.

Clint goes to find more arrows in the room beyond, and Steve steps out to call someone, Maria Hill, presumably. Natalia moves to stand in front of him, and waits until he relents and looks up, meeting her eye. She smiles faintly at him.

"I _always_ amaze you?" she questions, raising an eyebrow.

He looks back at the floor. "You're very impressive," he defends himself, feeling sick. This is not how he was hoping this would go.

She sighs softly. "I'm sure they can take care of things. My head is killing me and I think I'd like Dr. Banner to take a look as soon as possible. You want to help me get home, James?" she asks quietly.

Nodding, he offers her his shoulder to lean on, then wraps his arm around her waist. They make their way to the stairs and out of the building. She directs them to a car, and he drives them back to the tower. Once inside, he accompanies her to the labs downstairs. He usually tries to avoid them, but isn't sure she can make it on her own. Once she is in Bruce's capable hands, though, he slips away and goes to his floor.

* * *

"You never did like to talk about this kind of thing," Steve's voice behind him causes him to tense up briefly.

"No?" he asks politely, not turning from where he stands, staring out the window in the living room.

Steve joins him, looking out as well. "Dames. I mean, you'd try to get me set up with one all of the time, but we never really talked afterward."

He shrugs. "Maybe I just didn't want to have a one-sided conversation with you."

Steve laughs a little. "Yeah, I guess it would have been one-sided if that was the topic." He pauses, sobering. "So, when did you realize you'd fallen for our ex-Russian spy?" His tone belies the jesting nature of the question, and he glances at him.

"When I saw her dance," he says evenly, noting the lack of surprise or confusion on his friend's face.

"Is she good? She hasn't shown us," Steve replies with a small smile.

"The best," he answers flatly.

"She must be, to make you break your programming."

He grits his teeth for a moment. "She told you?"

"Yeah. We weren't sure… if it would help for you to know or not," Steve explains, sounding pained. He shrugs. He doesn't know. "Where is she?"

"With Bruce."

Steve nods. "I'm sure she'll be fine. You didn't want to get checked out?"

"No."

"I understand, Buck. I'm going to go get cleaned up. I'll be just down the hall if you need anything," Steve says gently, grasping his shoulder for a moment before walking away.

* * *

He waits. He doesn't admit to himself what he is waiting for, just waits. Until he hears quiet footsteps behind him, and wonders if he'd rather go back to waiting.

"James."

"Natalia."

She stands next to him, close by, closer than Steve had. He doesn't move. "Do you have any injuries that should be looked after?" she asks quietly.

He shrugs. "I always used to get checked after a mission," he says tonelessly.

She lays a hand on his forearm. "What do you remember about being the Soldier?"

He turns to face her. "I remember everything, Natalia, and you were the one good thing in all of it."

"James," she says quietly, lifting a hand to touch his face.

Keeping his hands at his sides, watching her intently, he doesn't move as she runs her fingers across his cheek and brushes his lips. Then her eyes lift to meet his and she looks at him wistfully. He thinks of what he might say, what he wants to say, but there is too much, so he stays silent while her hand drops back to her side.

"I've missed you, Natalia," he says finally.

It is rare that she lets any real emotion show on her face. He can usually tell when she is putting on a façade, usually tell when it's the game she's playing. But now, it isn't. He can tell that she is distressed and aching and has been for a long time. Perhaps she's missed him, too.

"What happened to you?" she asks, hesitantly.

He isn't used to her being hesitant, concerned. Worried. He doesn't like it. "They came for me. Too many to fight, though I didn't try. They wiped my mind repeatedly until everything was gone," he answers. Her eyes close and she inhales deeply.

"I didn't know," she whispers.

"Where did you go?"

She looks at him again, some of that familiar fire returning to her eyes as she frowns. "Yelena. She came to the window and asked for my help on a mission. When I got back… You were gone." She's angry, and Yelena is lucky to be far from here. "They made me think I was crazy when I asked about you. I didn't know… I didn't know it was real until I talked to Steve yesterday."

He knows Steve talked to her about it, but he didn't realize it had been so recently. "Why?" he asks, surprised.

"He said you didn't shoot to kill me. And I thought about how you didn't shoot to kill the time we'd met before that, either. So there had to be a reason."

Tentatively, he lifts his real hand and reaches toward her. She doesn't move, or try to stop him, so he slowly moves the fabric of her shirt (no longer in mission gear) to see the scar above her hip. He touches it gently, then moves to touch the angrier one on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispers, withdrawing his hand.

She catches his fingers in hers and looks up at him earnestly. "It wasn't you."

He bites his lip. "Are you sure?"

Her brow furrows slightly, then she smiles sadly. "Alright, maybe it was you. And I owe you my life for not aiming somewhere else."

His own smile is grim, and he looks down at their clasped hands. "It won't be the same."

"What won't?" she asks, confused.

"This," he says, holding their hands up slightly, eloquently.

She moves closer, releasing his hand and pushing it behind her back. Obligingly, he encircles her waist with it, keeping his metal arm at his side. "Is that a bad thing?" she wonders aloud, looking up at him intently.

"I don't know," he answers automatically, then studies her face for a moment. "Probably not," he adds truthfully.

She smirks. "Why not?"

Unable to resist any longer, he bends and kisses her briefly. "Because I don't think anyone is going to want to hurt us if they find out," he explains.

Her eyes sparkle with amusement, and she nods. "You're right. We don't have to hide anymore."

He pulls her closer. "That was the worst part," he says emphatically.

"The worst part? Of the whole experience?"

"Okay, being wiped after was probably the worst part. But that's hard to remember," he admits.

She smiles sadly, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. "I'm sorry they did that to you because of me."

He is shaking his head before she finishes her statement. "They did it frequently, not just because of us. And I'm pretty sure I started this," he says, kissing her forehead.

"Yeah, it's definitely your fault," she agrees, leaning against his chest.

He rests his cheek on her hair and closes his eyes. "Steve didn't seem surprised," he says after a while.

He can feel her laughing against him. "Did you want him to be?"

"Clint was."

"Clint sees best from a distance. We were too close."

He wonders about her phrasing. "I hope you don't think we're too close."

She pulls away enough to look at him, standing on her toes to kiss him. "No, I think this is a good distance," she says with that smirk he knows so well.

"I love you, Natalia," he says quietly.

"I love you, James Buchanan Barnes," she answers.


End file.
